TALES    FROM    FOREIGN   TONGUES. 


UNIFORM    IN    STYLE    AND    PRICE. 


I. 

Memories :  A  Story  of  German  Love.  Translated  from 
the  German  of  MAX  MULLER,  by  GEO.  P.  UPTON.  i6mo, 
173  pages,  gilt  top. 

II. 

Graziella:  A  Story  of  Italian  Love.  Translated  from 
the  French  of  A.  DE  LAMARTINE,  by  JAMES  B.  RUNNION. 
i6mo,  235  pages,  gilt  top. 

III. 

Marie:  A  Story  of  Russian  Love.  From  the  Russian 
of  ALEXANDER  PUSHKIN,  by  MARIH  H.  DE  ZIELINSKA. 
i6mo,  210  pages,  gilt  top. 

IV. 

Madeleine:  A  Story  of  French  Love.  Translated  from 
the  French  of  JULES  SANDJBAU,  by  FRANCIS  CHARLOT. 
i6mo,  244  pages,  gilt  top. 


jan. 

MADELEINE: 

A  STORY  OF  FRENCH   LOVE 

(CROWNED  BY  THE  FRENCH  ACADEMY.) 
TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    FRENCH 

OF 

JULES   SANDEAU, 

BY 

FRANCIS  CHARLOT. 


CHICAGO: 
A.    C.    McCLURG    &    COMPANY 

1 801. 


COPYRIGHT. 

JANSEN,   McCLURG   &  CO.7 
A.   P.,  1878. 


2138137 


MADELEINE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

T  IKE  most  provincial  villages  through  which 
•* — '  passes  a  royal  route,  Neuvy-les-Bois  is 
an  ugly  town  —  muddy  in  Winter,  dusty  in 
Summer,  in  all  seasons  without  poetry  and 
without  mystery.  It  possesses  so  little  impor- 
tance that,  previous  to  the  day  when  our  simple 
narrative  commences,  the  inhabitants  had  no 
recollection  of  any  public  carriage  ever  having 
stopped  in  their  streets.  The  disdain  that  the 
postilions  and  conductors  of  the  diligences  had 
from  all  time  affected  toward  Neuvy-les-Bois, 
will  convey  an  idea  of  the  poor  quality  of  its 
wines. 

It  was   mid-day   of   a   Sunday   in   Autumn. 


MADELEINE  ; 


Grouped  at  the  entrance  of  the  little  hamlet, 
under  a  fiery  sun  whose  rays  fell  like  lead  upon 
their  heads,  the  inhabitants  waited  gravely  for 
the  passage  of  the  diligence  from  Paris  to 
Limoges.  This  weekly  event  was  their  only 
diversion ;  brief,  it  is  true,  but  intoxicating,  like 
all  joys  that  are  soon  lost.  On  these  occasions, 
at  the  moment  when  they  first  heard  the 
approaching  vehicle,  they  ranged  themselves  sol- 
emnly on  each  side  of  the  road ;  and  when  the 
huge  machine,  rolling  in  at  the  grand  trot  of  the 
Limousine  horses,  had  passed  between  the  two 
rows  of  noses  in  the  air,  staring  eyes,  and  wide- 
open  mouths,  and  disappeared  in  a  cloud  of 
dust  at  a  bend  of  the  road,  these  worthy  people 
would  re-enter  their  houses,  their  hearts  filled 
with  a  sweet  satisfaction. 

On  this  particular  Sunday,  there  was  nothing 
to  indicate  any  change  from  the  usual  course  of 
things  ;  but  it  was  written  above  that  Neuvy-les- 
Bois  should  that  day  be  the  theater  of  an  event 
upon  which  this  modest  village,  profoundly 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  g 

discouraged  by  a  half-century  of  waiting,  had 
not  dared  to  count.  Instead  of  passing  through 
the  village  in  a  flash,  as  was  its  habit,  the 
diligence  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  the 
street,  between  the  two  living  fences  which  had 
been  formed  as  usual  to  await  its  passage.  At 
this  unexpected  spectacle,  all  Neuvy-les-Bois 
remained  standing  in  its  place,  without  dreaming 
of  asking  whence  came  so  rare  an  honor.  Even 
the  dogs,  that  were  in  the  habit  of  running 
barking  before  the  coach,  inviting  blows  from  the 
postilion's  whip,  seemed  to  partake  of  the 
astonishment  of  their  masters,  and  held  them- 
selves, like  them,  stiff  and  mute  with  stupor. 

Meanwhile  the  conductor  had  descended, 
opened  the  coach  door,  and  uttered  in  a  dry  tone 
the  word  "Neuvy-les-Bois."  A  young  girl 
alighted,  her  only  baggage  being  a  small  packet 
which  she  carried  in  her  hand.  She  was  dressed 
in  black,  and  could  not  have  been  more  than 
fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age.  Her  pale  face, 
her  eyes  evidently  used  to  tears,  and  her  sad 


I0  MADELEINE  : 


and  suffering  air,  said  more  than  her  mourning 
dress.  Although  but  a  child,  she  seemed  grave 
beyond  her  years.  Before  she  had  time  to  say 
adieu  to  her  traveling  companions,  the  conductor 
had  climbed  again  to  his  seat,  and  the  diligence 
whirled  away.  When  she  found  herself  in  the 
road  at  the  entrance  of  this  miserable  village, 
where  not  a  soul  knew  her,  alone  in  the  midst  of 
all  these  faces  that  examined  her  with  an  ex- 
pression of  curiosity  simple  yet  suspicious,  the 
poor  girl  seated  herself  upon  a  pile  of  stones, 
and,  feeling  her  heart  give  way,  bowed  her  head 
between  her  hands  and  wept  bitterly.  The 
peasants  continued  to  regard  her  with  the  same 
air,  but  without  a  word,  and  without  budging 
from  the  spot. 

Happily,  in  this  rustic  group  there  were  some 
women;  and  among  these  women  was  a  mother, 
who  cradled  upon  her  breast  a  little  new-born 
babe.  She  approached  the  afflicted  girl,  and 
regarded  her  with  a  hesitating  pity ;  for  although 
the  child  seemed  friendless  and  poor,  there  was 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  XI 

about  her  a  natural  distinction  that  relieved 
singularly  the  simplicity  of  her  costume,  and 
easily  commanded  deference  and  respect. 

"  Poor  young  lady  !  "  said  the  woman  at  last ; 
"  since  you  are  traveling  alone  at  your  age,  it 
must  be  that  you  have  lost  your  mother." 

"Yes,  Madame,  I  have  lost  my  mother," 
replied  the  young  girl,  in  a  sweet  voice,  with  a 
slight  foreign  accent.  "  Alas !  I  have  lost  all  — 
even  the  little  corner  of  the  earth  where  I  was 
born,  and  where  rest  the  remains  of  those  who 
were  dearest  to  me.  I  have  nothing  now  left 
under  heaven,"  added  she,  dropping  her  head. 

"  Dear  young  lady,  may  the  good  God  take 
pity  upon  your  pain.  I  can  tell  from  your 
speech  that  you  are  not  of  our  country.  No 
doubt  you  have  come  far." 

"Oh,  yes — indeed  far.  I  have  often  feared 
I  would  never  arrive." 

"And  you  go ?" 

"  Where  my  mother,  before  she  died,  directed 
me.  I  knew  when  I  started  that  once  at 


I2  MADELEINE: 


Neuvy-les-Bois  I  could  easily  find  my  way  to 
Valtravers." 

"  You  are  going  to  Valtravers  ?  " 

"Yes,  Madame." 

"  To  the  chateau  ?  " 

"  Precisely." 

"  You  have  come  the  longest  way,  Mademoi- 
selle. You  should  have  stopped  at  the  last 
village.  However,  it  is  nearly  the  same.  You 
have  only  three  little  leagues  to  walk,  and  you 
can  make  them  yet  shorter  by  going  through  the 
woods.  If  you  will  permit,  my  nephew  Pierrot 
will  conduct  you.  But  the  heat  is  overpowering; 
and  I  dare  say,  my  child,  that  you  have  taken 
no  food  to-day.  Come  to  our  farm  and  taste 
some  milk,  and  then  in  the  cool  of  the  evening 
you  can  go  on  your  way." 

"Thanks,  Madame;  you  are  good.  But  I 
need  nothing.  I  would  rather  start  at  once. 
And  if  it  would  not  be  imposing  on  Pierrot " 

"  Come  here,  Pierrot !  "  cried  the  woman. 

At    this    invitation,   made    in    a   tone    that 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I3 

admitted  of  no  reply,  a  droll  little  fellow 
detached  himself  from  the  crowd,  and  advanced 
toward  the  woman  with  the  piteous  manner  of 
a  dog  that  feels  that  his  master  calls  him  for  a 
beating.  Pierrot,  who  all  day  had  soothed  him- 
self with  the  delightful  hope  of  playing  ball  on 
the  church  common  after  vespers,  seemed  little 
pleased  at  the  proposition  of  his  aunt.  She, 
however,  reiterated  her  command  in  such  a  tone 
that  he  deemed  it  prudent  to  resign  himself. 
Putting  in  his  hand  the  little  packet  of  the 
stranger,  she  pushed  him  by  the  shoulders,  and 
said: 

"Go  through  the  woods;  and  above  all,  do 
not  make  the  young  lady  walk  too  fast.  She 
has  neither  thy  feet  nor  thy  legs." 

Pierrot  started,  with  a  sullen  air;  whilst 
Neuvy  -  les  -  Bois,  beginning  to  recover  from  its 
stupor,  absorbed  itself  in  commenting  upon  the 
events  of  the  great  day. 

We  suspect  that  the  village  of  Neuvy-les-Bois 
had  been  thus  named  by  way  of  paradox: — 


MADELEINE  : 


Neuvy,  if  you  please;  but  as  for  woods,  that 
was  another  matter.  I  know  of  nothing  more 
fallacious  and  uncertain  than  these  names  of 
persons  and  of  places  which  have  a  precise 
signification,  and  which  are  like  formal  engage- 
ments—  rarely  fulfilling  that  which  they  promise; 
their  failure  being  usually  in  precisely  those 
qualities  for  which  they  are  named.  I  have 
known  Angeliques  who  were  not  angels,  and 
young  Blanches  that  were  as  black  as  little 
crows.  And  as  for  places,  without  going  farther 
than  Neuvy-les-Bois  —  since  we  are  there  —  it 
has  no  trees,  not  even  a  group  of  poplars  to 
shelter  it  from  the  Northern  winds  or  the  Sum- 
mer heats.  The  country  is  naked  and  flat  as  the 
sea;  and  for  a  distance  of  half-a-league  around, 
you  will  not  find  even  the  shadow  of  an  oak. 
At  Fontenay-aux-Roses  you  will  at  least  find  a 
few  withered  rose-bushes. 

However,  as  the  young  girl  and  her  guide 
left  the  dusty  road  and  advanced  through  the 
fields,  the  landscape  assumed  an  aspect  more 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I$ 

smiling  and  green.  After  two  hours'  walk,  they 
could  see  the  forest  of  Valtravers  undulating 
on  the  horizon.  In  spite  of  the  injunction  of 
his  aunt,  Pierrot  walked  rapidly,  without  care 
for  his  companion.  The  possibility  of  being 
able  to  return  in  time  to  take  part  in  the 
game  of  ball,  gave  the  little  rascal  wings. 
Although  the  young  girl  was  quick-footed  and 
light,  she  had  begged  him  to  go  slower;  but 
the  abominable  Pierrot  was  deaf  to  her  entreaty, 
and  pursued  his  way  without  pity.  Though 
going  post-haste,  he  yet  could  not  fail  to  see 
by  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  grain  in  the 
fields,  that,  try  his  best,  he  could  not  reach 
Valtravers  and  return  in  time  for  his  Sunday 
play.  At  the  edge  of  the  forest,  an  idea  sud- 
denly crossed  the  brain  of  this  young  cow-boy. 
"  See ! "  said  he  resolutely,  placing  the  packet 
upon  the  ground ;  "  you  have  only  to  follow 
this  wide  path,  and  it  will  lead  you  direct  to 
the  chateau.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  you  will 
have  your  nose  in  the  door." 


1 6  MADELEINE: 


Upon  this,  he  prepared  to  leave  her,  when 
a  gesture  detained  him.  Detaching  from  her 
belt  a  little  purse,  which  did  not  appear  very 
heavy,  the  young  girl  drew  out  a  piece  of  silver, 
which  she  handed  to  Pierrot,  at  the  same  time 
thanking  him  for  his  trouble.  At  this  trait  of 
generosity,  upon  which  he  had  not  counted, 
Pierrot  hesitated;  and  perhaps  he  would  have 
heeded  the  cry  of  conscience,  had  he  not  at 
that  instant  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  church- 
spire  of  Neuvy-les-Bois,  in  the  distance.  By 
some  effect  of  mirage,  which  the  passion  for 
play  can  perhaps  explain,  he  also  saw  upon  the 
common  a  dozen  little  rascals  like  himself, 
with  their  bats  and  balls.  At  this  sight,  Pierrot 
could  restrain  himself  no  longer.  He  took  the 
piece  of  silver,  buried  it  in  the  depths  of  his 
pocket,  and  took  to  his  legs  as  if  the  devil 
pursued  him. 

Upon  reaching  the  cool  shade  of  the  trees, 
the  young  girl  experienced  a  grateful  sense  of 
relief,  as  of  one  going  from  a  heated  room  to  a 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I7 

cool  bath.  Her  first  act  was  to  thank  God  for 
having  sustained  and  protected  her  in  the  long 
journey  which  was  about  to  end,  and  to  pray 
of  Him  to  render  hospitable  the  door  at  which 
she  was  soon  to  knock.  Not  doubting  that  the 
chateau  was  very  near,  she  seated  herself  at 
the  foot  of  an  oak,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the 
enchantment  of  the  forest. — Kind  and  indulgent 
Nature !  Thou  art  the  friend  of  all  ages ;  thou 
consolest  the  old,  and  even  children,  when 
thou  smilest  upon  them,  forget  that  they  have 
lost  their  mother. — Around  her  was  harmony, 
freshness,  and  perfume.  The  oblique  rays  that 
the  sun  sent  through  the  leaves  to  die  at  her 
feet,  reminded  her  that  night  approached.  She 
rose  and  pursued  her  path,  expecting  every 
instant  to  see  walls  and  towers.  But  she  soon 
found  that  the  path  which  Pierrot  had  told  her 
led  direct  to  the  chateau,  ended  in  an  avenue 
that  crossed  it  at  right  angles.  The  child 
listened,  to  catch  sounds  from  any  habitation 
that  might  be  near;  but  she  heard  instead 

2 


1 8  MADELEINE: 


only  the  profound  murmurs  of  the  forest.  She 
climbed  a  little  mound,  and  saw  nothing  around 
her  but  an  ocean  of  verdure.  For  a  long  time 
she  wandered  on,  alone  save  for  the  care  of 
God;  when,  wishing  to  retrace  her  steps,  she 
found  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  the  path 
by  which  she  came.  The  setting  sun  filled  the 
forest  with  shade  and  with  mystery.  The  songs 
of  the  birds  had  ceased ;  the  butterflies  beat 
the  air  with  their  silky  wings ;  and  there  had 
already  begun  the  sinister  concert  of  the  frogs. 
It  is  at  this  hour,  above  all  others,  that  solitude 
and  sadness  weigh  heaviest  upon  the  souls  of 
the  unfortunate.  Tired  and  discouraged,  and 
without  strength  to  go  farther,  the  poor  child 
fell  upon  the  grass,  while  her  tears  ran  down 
afresh.  She  had  untied  the  black  ribbons  of 
her  straw  hat ;  and  whilst  she  wept,  the  breezes 
played  with  her  blonde  hair,  that  was  gilded 
by  the  sun's  last  ray. 

She  had   been  for  some   minutes    thus    lost 
in  despair,  when  she  saw  near  her  a  beautiful 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I9 

horse,  whose  approach  she  had  not  noticed, 
and  which  had  been  stopped,  when  a  few  steps 
from  her,  by  its  rider,  who  was  now  regarding 
her  with  the  surprised  air  of  one  not  accus- 
tomed to  such  meetings  at  such  an  hour  and 
in  such  a  place.  She  sprang  to  her  feet ;  then, 
re-assured  by  the  frank  smile  of  the  cavalier, 
she  said: 

"Monsieur,  it  is  God  who  has  sent  you  to 
my  aid.  If  you  belong  in  this  country,  you 
know  already  that  I  am  a  stranger.  For  more 
than  two  hours  I  have  wandered  in  this  forest, 
not  knowing  where  its  paths  led.  Will  you  do 
me  the  kindness  to  put  me  in  my  way  ? " 

"  Certainly,  Mademoiselle,"  replied  a  voice 
almost  as  soft  as  her  own ;  "  only,  I  must  know 
where  you  wish  to  go." 

"  To  Valtravers,  Monsieur." 

"To  the  chateau?" 

"Yes  —  to  the  chateau  of  Valtravers." 

"  You  could  have  found  no  one  to  direct  you 
better,  Mademoiselle,  for  I  am  going  there,  and 


MADELEINE : 


if  you  will  permit  I  will  have  the  honor  of 
guiding  you." 

Without  waiting  for  a  reply,  the  cavalier 
sprang  from  his  horse.  He  was  a  young  man, 
in  all  the  freshness  of  life's  Spring-time;  slender 
and  elegant,  with  soft  yet  proud  eyes,  and  above 
all  that  grace  that  cannot  be  described.  His 
hair,  lustrous  as  jet,  curled  closely  about  his 
temples.  Tied  negligently  about  his  neck  was  a 
scarf  of  gray  silk  striped  with  blue,  which  did 
not  hide  but  only  relieved  the  pure  ivory  of  the 
throat.  A  brown  riding-coat  fitted  closely  to  his 
flexible  figure,  and  white  pantaloons  fell  over  a 
boot  slender  and  straight  and  arched,  armed  at 
the  heel  with  a  tinkling  spur  of  steel.  His 
appearance  was  thus  at  the  same  time  simple 
and  charming. 

"Is  this  yours,  Mademoiselle?"  he  asked, 
pointing  with  his  whip  to  the  little  packet  on  the 
grass. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur,  it  is  all  my  fortune,"  replied 
the  little  stranger,  with  a  sad  smile. 


A    STO.RY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  21 

The  young  man  took  the  packet  and  fastened 
it  securely  to  the  saddle ;  then,  offering  his  arm 
to  the  girl,  they  proceeded  in  the  direction  of  the 
chateau,  followed  by  the  beautiful  and  docile 
horse,  which  cropped  on  each  side  of  the  way 
the  young  buds  of  Autumn. 

"  Mademoiselle,  I  thank  the  chance  which 
brought  me  here ;  for,  lost  as  you  were,  you 
were  likely  to  sleep  to-night  under  the  stars  and 
upon  the  moss  of  the  woods." 

"I  had  resigned  myself  to  that,  Monsieur;" 
and  the  young  girl  recounted  the  manner  in 
which  she  had  been  deceived  by  Pierrot. 

"  Pierrot  is  a  rascal  who  deserves  to  have  his 
ears  cut  off,"  said  the  young  man.  "  As  you  are 
going  to  Valtravers,  Mademoiselle,  you  must 
know  the  Chevalier,  or  at  least  some  one  at  the 
chateau  ?" 

"  I  know  no  one  there." 

"  Indeed !  " 

"  Absolutely  no  one.  But  you,  Monsieur, 
you  know  the  Chevalier  ?  " 


22  MADELEINE: 


"Certainly;    we  are  old  friends." 

"  It   is  said   that   he  is   good,  generous,  and 

charitable." 

"  Oh,    very     charitable,"   replied    the    young 

man,  who  thought  this  was  perhaps  some  case  of 

misfortune  seeking  aid ;  but  after  a  rapid  survey 

of  his   companion,    he   gave  up  this   idea,  and 

decided  that  she  could  not  be  an  ordinary  seeker 

of  charity. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  continued,  gravely,  "the 

Chevalier  has  the  most  noble  heart  that  ever 

beat." 

"  I   did    not    doubt  it,"  she    replied,    simply. 

"  Still,  at    this    moment    it   is    sweet  to  hear  it 

affirmed  anew.  —  And  little  Maurice,  Monsieur; 

you  must  know  him  ?  " 

"What  little   Maurice,  Mademoiselle?" 

"Oh,  the  son  of  the  Chevalier." 

"Indeed!    indeed!"   cried    the   young   man, 

laughing;  "certainly  I  know  little  Maurice." 
"  Does   he  promise  to  become   some  day  as 

good  and  generous  as  his  father  ?  " 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  23 

"Oh,  he  passes  generally  in  the  country  for  a 
good-enough  fellow.  I  do  not  wish  to  say  any 
evil  of  him." 

"I  feel  that  I  shall  love  him  like  a  brother." 

"  And  I  can  assure  you,  on  his  part,  that  he 
will  be  charmed  to  see  you. " 

At  this  instant  they  crossed  a  clearing;  and 
behind  the  wall  of  a  park  whose  gate  opened 
upon  the  forest,  there  appeared  a  pretty  castle, 
its  windows  burning  with  the  last  rays  of  the 
setting  sun. 


CHAPTER    II. 

ON  the  same  evening,  at  the  same  hour,  the 
old  Chevalier  de  Valtravers  was  seated 
upon  his  door-step,  in  company  with  the  Marquise 
de  Fresnes,  whose  neighboring  chateau  could  be 
seen  in  the  depth  of  the  valley,  through  the  yet 
green  foliage  of  the  poplars  that  bordered  the 
Vienne  river.  They  were  entertaining  each 
other  in  talking  of  by-gone  times ;  for  at  their 
age  life  has  little  to  illumine  it  beyond  the  dim 
and  pale  reflection  of  the  past  which  is  called 
Memory. 

The  friendship  of  the  Chevalier  and  the 
Marquise  was  of  long  standing.  At  the  first 
stroke  of  the  tocsin  sounded  by  the  Monarchy 
to  its  supporters,  the  Marquis  de  Fresnes  had 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  25 

determined  that  the  proper  thing  for  him  to  do 
was  to  make  with  his  wife  a  tour  of  a  few  months 
along  the  Rhine;  thus  protesting  against  what 
passed  in  France,  while  giving  at  the  same  time 
a  mark  of  respect  and  devotion  to  the  throne  of 
St.  Louis.  The  Chevalier  de  Valtravers  decided 
to  accompany  them.  It  is  now  known  how 
these  journeyings,  begun  as  pleasure-excursions 
of  but  a  few  months,  ended  for  the  most  part  in 
a  long  and  hard  exile.  The  three  companions 
counted  so  surely  upon  an  early  return,  that 
they  had  taken  with  them  enough  to  sustain 
them  in  a  life  of  idleness  but  little  more  than  a 
year.  These  resources  exhausted,  the  income 
of  their  home  estates  diverted  by  the  govern- 
ment, their  diamonds  and  jewels  and  other 
valuables  converted  into  money,  they  went 
quietly  to  Nuremberg,  where  they  installed 
themselves  in  the  simplest  manner,  their  only 
study  being  how  to  exist.  The  Marquis  and  the 
Chevalier  were  firmly  wedded  to  the  old  ideas 
of  the  aristocracy ;  and  so,  as  always  happens, 


26  MADELEINE: 


it  was  a  woman  who  first  set  the  example  of 
resignation,  of  courage,  and  of  energy.  When 
the  two  friends  asked  anxiously  what  they  should 
do  in  the  new  condition  of  things,  Madame  de 
Fresnes  said  simply,  "We  will  work." 

She  painted  tolerably  in  pastel  and  miniature. 
She  made  portraits,  and  she  gave  lessons.  Her 
beauty,  her  grace,  and  her  misfortune  were  more 
marked  than  her  talents,  and  soon  gained  for 
her  numerous  patrons.  The  two  fine  gentle- 
men, who  began  by  decrying  her  work  as  lower 
ing  one  of  her  rank,  ended  by  admitting  that  they 
were  supported  without  their  own  efforts,  and 
that  it  was  the  Marquise  who,  to  use  an  old  say- 
ing, "brought  water  to  the  mill."  The  Marquis, 
however,  did  not  care  to  do  anything ;  but  the 
Chevalier  realized  that  to  stand  thus  with  arms 
folded  from  false  pride,  was  to  present  a  poor 
front  to  fortune.  But  what  employment  could 
he  find  for  his  faculties?  —  to  what  industry 
could  he  apply  his  two  strong  arms?  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  could  teach  French;  but 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


27 


the  thought  that  he  must  first  learn  another  lan- 
guage, upset  this  beautiful  idea.  After  having 
studied  and  turned  himself  in  all  ways,  the 
Chevalier  decided  in  all  humility  that  he  was 
fit  for  nothing  but  to  go  and  be  killed  in  the 
army  of  Conde".  For  this  he  prepared  himself, 
seriously,  but  without  enthusiasm.  One  day,  as 
he  wandered  sadly  in  the  street,  he  stopped 
mechanically  before  a  toy-shop,  where  he  saw, 
among  other  little  objects  of  wood  made  with  a 
turning -lathe,  some  cups  and  balls  artistically 
cut,  and  a  goodly  number  of  those  humming- 
tops  which  are  the  delight  of  children  and  the 
glory  of  Nuremberg.  It  would  seem  that  for  a 
gentleman  emigrant,  completely  ruined,  and 
long  past  the  age  of  cups  and  balls  and  spin- 
ning-tops, this  spectacle  had  nothing  that  could 
excite  the  imagination  or  induce  a  transport  of 
the  brain.  It  happened,  however,  that  after 
some  minutes  of  silent  contemplation,  the  Chev- 
alier seemed  to  experience  something  of  that 
shock  of  discovery  that  struck  Columbus  when 


28  MADELEINE  : 


he  saw  rising  from  the  bosom  of  the  ocean  the 
shores  of  a  new  world ;  or  Galileo,  when  he  felt 
our  little  globe,  stationed  by  ignorance  for  six 
thousand  years  in  space,  move  itself  and  prom- 
enade around  the  sun. 

M.  de  Valtravers  was  born  in  1760;  when, 
thanks  to  the  "Emile"  of  Rousseau,  it  was  the 
fashion  among  the  higher  classes  of  French 
society  to  complete  an  education  by  an  appren- 
ticeship to  some  trade.  The  example  set  was 
of  the  highest;  for  in  1780  the  King  of  France, 
who  was  the  most  honest  man  in  his  kingdom, 
was  also  the  best  locksmith.  It  was  then  the 
fashion  for  all  the  great  lords  to  know  some 
mechanical  art,  and  for  the  grand  ladies  to 
nurse  their  own  children.  In  general,  this  state 
of  affairs  shaped  itself  without  any  pre-arrange- 
ment  or  design.  One  sex  played  at  work,  the 
other  at  maternity;  lending  themselves  more 
to  the  caprice  of  the  day  than  to  the  instincts 
of  Nature.  The  noblemen  never  suspected,  as 
they  handled  the  plane  and  the  file,  that  the 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


29 


time  was  coming  when  the  sons  of  the  great 
families  would  be  forced  to  become  the  sons 
of  toil,  and  that  it  was  more  wise  to  act  than 
to  dream,  as  they  must  thenceforth  create  for 
themselves  titles  in  the  State. 

At  the  sight  of  all  these  playthings,  before 
which  chance  or  the  instincts  of  a  mysterious 
vocation  had  conducted  him,  M.  de  Valtravers 
remembered  that  he  had  learned  in  youth  the 
art  of  turning  in  ebony  and  in  ivory.  Three 
months  after  this,  he  passed  in  Nuremberg  as 
the  Benvenuto  Cellini  of  wood  -  turning.  He 
excelled  in  the  making  of  toys.  His  humming- 
tops  delighted  the  public;  but  what  shall  we 
say  of  his  nut-crackers,  which,  by  the  delicacy 
and  finish  of  their  details,  were  simply  marvels 
of  art  ?  His  works  in  ivory  were  valued  as 
real  jewels.  Fashion  mixed  itself  in  all  this, 
and  his  products,  like  the  pastels  of  Madame 
de  Fresnes,  were  soon  greatly  in  vogue.  During 
the  two  years  they  spent  in  this  old  German 
city,  every  well-born  face  considered  it  a  duty 


MADELEINE  : 


to  pose  before  the  Marquise  ;  while  there  was 
not  a  filbert  eaten  in  society  without  the  inter- 
vention of  the  French  emigrant. 

It  can  readily  be  believed  that,  unlike  some 
people,  our  two  artists  did  not  take  their  suc- 
cess very  seriously.  Though  holding  it  in 
public  at  a  very  high  price,  it  furnished  them 
material  for  much  pleasant  badinage  at  home. 
After  working  hard  all  day,  they  met  in  the 
evening;  and  then  there  was  a  scene  of  child- 
like gaiety.  When  the  Marquise  exhibited  upon 
her  easel  the  full-blown  face  of  some  fat 
Nuremberger,  the  Chevalier  drew  from  his 
pocket  half-a-dozen  nut-crackers  that  he  had 
turned  during  the  day ;  and  they  laughed  like 
children,  without  perceiving  that  it  was  to  work 
that  they  owed  their  light -heartedness  —  to 
labor,  that  made  them  happier  and  better  than 
they  had  ever  been  in  their  prosperity.  The 
Marquis,  however,  still  clung  to  his  belief  that 
to  toil  for  his  daily  bread  was  beneath  the 
character  of  a  gentleman,  who  should  respect 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  31 

himself  and  know  how  to  die,  like  a  Roman 
senator  in  his  cerulean  chair,  rather  than  live 
like  common  workers.  He  grew  disdainful  in 
manner  toward  his  wife,  and  despised  sove- 
reignly the  Chevalier ;  and  he  did  not  trouble 
himself  to  conceal  his  feelings.  What  exasper- 
ated him  most  was  to  see  them  constantly 
occupied,  and  in  good  humor ;  whilst  he  was 
literally  dying  of  that  heavy  and  profound 
ennui  which  inaction  drags  after  it.  In  respect- 
ing himself,  however,  he  was  still  able  to  eat 
with  a  good  appetite ;  availing  himself,  without 
scruple,  of  the  benefits  of  the  association,  and 
showing  himself  in  every  respect  more  exact- 
ing than  when  in  his  chateau  on  the  banks  of 
the  Vienne.  It  was  when  they  were  assembled 
at  meal-times  that  his  bile  showed  itself  most. 
Sometimes  the  Chevalier  would  then  rejoin  by 
asking:  "Marquis,  do  me  the  favor  to  say  where 
would  we  now  be  except  for  the  pastels  of  the 
Marquise?"  —  "And  without  the  nut-crackers 
of  our  friend  ?  "  the  Marquise  would  add,  laugh- 


MADELEINE: 


ing.  But  M.  de  Fresnes  would  shrug  his 
shoulders,  speak  of  the  stain  on  his  escutcheon, 
ask  pardon  for  his  wife  of  the  manes  of  his 
ancestors  —  and  then  complain  bitterly  that 
there  was  no  Bordeaux  wine  upon  the  table. 

At  length,  when  they  were  assured  of  the  pros- 
perity of  their  household,  Madame  de  Fresnes 
and  M.  de  Valtravers  could  obey  a  sentiment 
more  disinterested  and  .more  poetic,  which  had 
insensibly  developed  in  them.  They  had  crossed, 
without  suspecting  it,  the  steps  that  lead  from 
trade  to  art,  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob,  reach- 
ing from  the  earth  to  heaven.  The  Marquise 
attempted  miniature  copies  of  the  portraits  of 
the  old  masters,  and  succeeded  so  well  that 
buyers  competed  for  these  miniatures  after  Hol- 
bein and  Albert  Diirer.  For  his  part,  the  Cheva- 
lier labored  earnestly  at  sculpture  in  wood.  He 
distinguished  himself,  and  became  in  this  genre 
one  of  the  most  eminent  artists  beyond  the 
Rhine.  There  is  shown  yet  in  the  Cathedral  of 
Nuremberg  a  chair,  whose  ornaments,  though 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


33 


not  in  irreproachable  taste,  includes  a  carving 
representing  St.  John  preaching  in  the  wilder- 
ness, which  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  in  Ger- 
many, and  would  bear  comparison  with  the  carv- 
ings in  the  Church  of  St.  Giorgio  Maggiore. 

Outside  of  the  enjoyments  that  it  procures, 
humble  and  modest  as  they  are,  art  has  some- 
thing yet  more  sure  and  precious.  It  elevates 
the  heart  and  widens  the  spirit;  it  opens  to 
thought  a  wider  and  serener  horizon.  At  least, 
this  is  what  it  did  for  the  Marquise  and  the 
Chevalier.  It  broke,  little  by  little,  the  circle 
of  narrow  ideas  in  which  their  birth  and  educa- 
tion had  confined  them.  They  recognized  the 
aristocracy  of  labor  and  the  royalty  of  intelli- 
gence. Like  two  butterflies  escaped  from  the 
chrysalis,  they  emerged  from  the  wrappings  of 
caste  to  enter  triumphantly  the  grand  family  of 
humanity.  During  this  time,  worn  by  ennui  to 
the  very  marrow  of  his  bones,  the  Marquis  con- 
tinued to  be  consumed  by  impotent  desires  and 
sterile  regrets ;  till  at  last,  one  beautiful  day,  he 


34 


MADELEINE  : 


rendered  to  God  what  he  had  of  soul,  and  his 
wife  and  his  friend  wept  over  him  like  children. 
Some  months  after,  in  1802,  upon  the  invita- 
tion of  the  First  Consul,  they  re-crossed  the 
Rhine  and  returned  happily  into  their  own 
country,  like  it  regenerated.  They  had  both 
long  comprehended  and  accepted  the  new  glory 
of  France.  In  again  touching  this  heroic 
ground,  they  felt  their  hearts  tremble,  and 
sweet  tears  moistened  their  eyes.  The  best 
portions  of  their  estates  had  been  preserved  by 
the  government,  and  they  easily  obtained  permis- 
sion to  enter  upon  their  possession.  Once  more 
established  at  home,  their  long  exile  seemed 
like  a  dream ;  only,  unlike  the  Epimenides,  they 
awakened  young  after  having  gone  to  sleep  old. 
Hardly  was  he  re-established  in  the  castle  of 
his  father,  when  the  Chevalier  hastened  to  bring 
there  a  chaste  and  beautiful  girl  whom  he  had 
loved  in  Germany,  whom  he  married,  and  who 
died  in  giving  birth  to  a  son.  This  child  grew 
up  between  his  father  and  Madame  de  Fresnes, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


35 


who  devoted  themselves  to  him,  living  philo- 
sophically in  their  retreat,  doing  good,  occupied 
with  their  old  pursuits,  deaf  to  the  noise  of  the 
world,  and  strangers  to  ambition.  Of  all  habits, 
that  of  work  is  the  most  rare  and  the  most 
imperious.  The  Marquise  painted  as  she  did 
in  the  old  time.  The  Chevalier  rose  at  day- 
light, and  cut  and  hollowed  and  polished  the 
wood  of  the  pear  and  walnut  and  oak;  for  he 
had  undertaken  the  task  of  renewing  magnifi- 
cently the  worm-eaten  wood- work  of  his  old 
chateau.  Also,  in  memory  of  his  old  success, 
he  turned  nut-crackers,  which  he  presented 
to  the  daughters  of  his  tenantry.  Reading, 
walking,  and  the  delights  of  a  friendship  whose 
charm  seemed  never  to  grow  old,  with  the  edu- 
cation of  young  Maurice,  absorbed  the  remain- 
der of  days  all  too  short  when  one  works  and 
when  one  loves. 


CHAPTER  III. 

ONE  evening,  as  these  old  companions  were 
seated  near  each  other,  entertaining 
themselves  in  re-traversing  the  current  of  the 
days  they  had  descended  together,  they  saw, 
coming  up  the  avenue  of  the  park,  the  two 
young  people  whom  we  left  at  the  gate. 
Arrived  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  the  young  girl 
ascended  them  slowly,  with  a  grave  air,  although 
visibly  affected.  The  Marquise  and  the  Cheva- 
lier rose  to  receive  her.  She  drew  from  her 
breast  a  letter,  which  she  first  carried  reverently 
to  her  lips,  and  then  presented  it  to  M.  de  Val- 
travers,  who  contemplated,  with  a  sentiment  of 
benevolent  curiosity,  this  child  that  he  saw 
for  the  first  time.  The  old  gentleman  broke 
36 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


37 


the  seal  and  read.  Standing  with  her  thin 
arms  crossed  upon  her  breast,  calm  in  her  grief, 
dignified  in  her  humility,  the  little  stranger 
drooped  her  eyes  under  the  gaze  of  Madame 
de  Fresnes,  who  regarded  her  with  interest ; 
while,  some  steps  apart,  the  young  man  who 
had  brought  her  joined  in  discreet  witness  of 
the  silent  scene. 

"MUNICH,  i3th  July,  18 — . 

"About  to  quit  this  world,  in  face  of  the 
eternity  which  is  immediately  to  open  for  me, 
it  is  not  toward  Heaven,  it  is  toward  France, 
that  my  eyes  turn  before  closing.  It  is  not 
toward  God,  but  toward  you,  my  brother,  that  I 
cry,  and  to  whom  I  extend  my  suppliant  hands 
in  the  name  of  her  who  was  my  sister  and  the 
wife  of  your  choice.  Alas !  this  house,  that  you 
have  known  so  prosperous,  has  been  cruelly 
tried.  Where  have  gone  the  joys  of  that  fireside 
at  which  in  other  days  you  came  to  seat  your- 
self? The  tomb  has  taken  from  me  all.  My 
husband  has  not  survived  the  loss  of  his  for- 
tune ;  and  I,  unhappily,  in  my  turn,  see  death 


38  MADELEINE  : 


approach.  I  die,  and  I  am  a  mother.  O  God ! 
this  is  to  die  twice.  When  you  read  these  lines, 
my  only  treasure,  the  sole  inheritance  that  I 
could  leave  in  going — my  daughter  —  will  have 
only  you  upon  this  earth.  When  you  hold  in 
your  hands  this  paper,  wet  with  my  tears,  my 
child  will  be  before  you ;  alone,  come  from  afar, 
broken  by  grief  and  by  fatigue,  without  other 
refuge  than  your  roof,  without  other  support 
than  your  heart.  Oh,  by  the  sweet  tie  which 
was  dear  to  you,  and  which  death  has  not 
broken;  by  this  Germany  which  showed  itself 
so  hospitable  to  you,  and  which  for  a  long  time 
was  for  you  your  country;  by  my  family,  become 
yours ;  by  the  adorable  creature  so  soon  ravished 
from  your  love,  and  who  adjures  you  here 
through  my  voice,  oh,  do  not  repulse  my  orphan 
child.  Receive  her.  Warm  in  your  breast  the 
dove  that  has  fallen  from  her  nest.  And  thou, 
whom  I  do  not  know,  but  whom  I  have  loved  to 
include  so  often  with  my  daughter  in  the  same 
sentiment  of  tenderness  and  solicitude  —  son  of 
my  sister  —  if  thy  mother  has  given  thee  her 
soul,  thou  wilt  be  good  and  fraternal  to  my 
beloved  Madeleine.  Protect  and  watch  over 
her  when  thy  father  shall  be  no  more.  And 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


39 


forget  not,  young  friend,  that  the  orphan  child 
that  Heaven  sends  us  sometimes  becomes  the 
tutelary  angel  of  the  house  that  opens  to  her." 

"  Come,  my  daughter  !  come  to  my  arms !  " 
cried  the  Chevalier,  when  he  had  finished  the 
reading.  "  Be  welcome,  my  child,  under  the 
roof  of  thy  old  uncle.  Were  it  not  for  the 
mourning  that  has  brought  thee  hither,  I  should 
say  thrice  happy  for  us  all  is  the  day  of  thy 
arrival. — Marquise,  it  is  my  niece,"  he  added, 
taking  in  his  hands  the  fair  head  of  the  young 
girl.  "  Maurice,  it  is  thy  cousin.  It  is  a  young 
sister,  who  conies  to  thee  from  the  country  of 
thy  mother." 

The  orphan  passed  from  the  arms  of  her 
uncle  to  those  of  the  Marquise.  Madame  de 
Fresnes  had  lost  an  only  daughter,  taken  in  her 
flower,  near  the  age  of  Madeleine ;  and,  like  all 
who  have  known  such  bereavements,  she  felt  an 
irresistible  impulse  to  find,  even  where  it  did 
not  exist,  striking  and  vivid  resemblances  between 
the  child  death  had  taken  and  those  me^  along 


MADELEINE  : 


the  way.  Touching  illusion  of  love  and  of  grief, 
which  transforms  all  these  fresh  faces  into  living 
portraits  of  the  adored  being  who  is  no  more ! 
The  Marquise  felt  herself  naturally  attracted 
toward  the  fair  creature  who  appeared  to  her 
the  image  of  her  daughter;  having  the  same 
eyes,  the  same  look,  the  same  charm,  sad  and 
grave,  peculiar  to  the  young  who  have  suffered 
or  who  are  condemned  to  die  before  their  time. 
With  this  predisposition,  one  can  judge  that 
Madame  de  Fresnes,  with  her  impulsive  and 
ardent  nature  —  a  nature  whose  generosity 
age  had  not  changed  —  adopted  with  enthusiasm 
the  cause  of  the  young  stranger.  She  pressed 
her  to  her  breast,  called  her  by  tender  names, 
and  covered  her  with  kisses  and  caresses.  Then 
it  was  the  turn  of  the  young  man. 

"  What,  my  cousin !  it  was  you  ?  "  she  cried, 
smiling  through  her  tears.  "  You  are  the  little 
Maurice  ?  I  had  fancied  you  could  only  be  a 
child  like  me." 

Maurice  embraced  her  cordially — though  it 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  4I 

is  doubtful  if  he  had  ever  thought  before  of  the 
existence  of  his  cousin. 

Meanwhile  the  Chevalier  gave  his  orders, 
troubling  himself  to  see  to  everything,  and  saying 
to  each  one  of  the  old  servants,  "  We  have  one 
child  more."  Certainly  if  she  could  that  evening 
have  seen  the  welcome  that  her  daughter 
received  at  Valtravers,  the  mother  of  our  heroine 
would  have  been  content  in  Paradise. 

The  installation  of  Madeleine  did  not  change 
the  way  of  things  at  the  chateau.  A  simple, 
pious,  and  modest  girl,  already  serious  and  reflect- 
ive, taking  a  quiet  place,  making  but  little  noise, 
the  most  of  the  time  silently  bent  over  her 
needle-work,  in  a  few  days  she  had  rendered 
herself  agreeable  to  everyone  by  her  sweetness 
and  her  goodness.  Of  her  face  and  figure,  we 
shall  say  but  little.  She  was  just  at  the  age 
which  has  lost  the  graces  of  childhood  and  has 
not  yet  reached  those  of  womanhood.  She  was 
not  really  beautiful,  nor  will  we  say  that  she 
promised  to  become  so.  Before  pronouncing 


42 


MADELEINE  : 


upon  questions  so  delicate,  it  is  always  prudent 
to  wait  until  the  season  of  transition  accom- 
plishes its  mysterious  work,  in  which  ugliness 
is  transfigured  and  the  early  flowers  of  beauty 
are  too  often  withered.  But  just  as  she  was, 
the  Marquise  and  the  Chevalier  loved  her  with 
a  true  tenderness;  and  the  life  of  the  child  was 
divided  between  their  neighboring  houses  — 
which  really  made  but  one  family.  So  far  from 
having  been  neglected,  her  education  had  been 
pushed  so  fast  that  she  could  continue  it  herself 
and  finish  it  at  need  without  other  help.  She 
spoke  French  with  purity  —  almost  without 
accent.  Like  all  Germans,  and  too  many 
French,  she  thoroughly  understood  music;  and 
—  a  quality  unhappily  more  rare — she  did  not 
abuse  it.  The  Chevalier  and  the  Marquise 
were  delighted  to  have  her  sing  the  Tyrolese 
songs;  but  these  airs,  which  brought  back  so 
pleasantly  to  them  the  happy  days  of  their  exile 
and  poverty,  recalled  cruelly  to  her  her  mother 
and  her  country,  both  lost  without  return ;  and 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE 


43 


often  the  poor  child's  song  was  interrupted  by 
her  tears  and  sobs. 

As  for  Maurice,  at  the  end  of  two  or  three 
weeks,  during  which  he  felt  obliged  to  pay  some 
attention  to  his  cousin  and  to  do  the  honors 
of  the  country,  he  scarcely  perceived  her 
presence.  He  was  twenty  years  old,  and  had 
all  the  ardor  and  impetuosity  of  his  age.  He 
had  grown  in  entire  liberty,  doubly  spoiled  by 
his  father  and  by  the  Marquise,  who  thought 
no  one  in  the  world  more  handsome  or  more 
charming.  A  tutor  had  taught  him  a  little 
Greek  and  Latin;  while  at  the  same  time  his 
father,  whose  love  for  wood-carving  had  become 
almost  a  mania,  initiated  him  into  th.at  art.  The 
old  Chevalier  wept  with  pride  and  joy  when  he 
saw  near  him  his  son,  squaring  and  turning  and 
polishing,  and  promising  to  surpass  his  instruc- 
tor; while  Maurice,  on  his  part,  appeared  to 
take  pleasure  in  this  inoffensive  pastime.  But 
one  beautiful  day,  there  came  to  him  a  misfor- 
tune. He  asked  himself  the  question  if,  after 


44  MADELEINE  : 


the  Chevalier,  the  Marquise,  and  wood-carving, 
there  was  nothing  else  for  him  in  the  world. 
To  this  indiscreet  question,  addressed  to  him 
by  the  turbulence  of  his  unquiet  youth,  the 
response  did  not  wait. 

There  are  tender  and  poetic  natures,  veiled 
in  their  morning  by  a  light  mist.  There  are 
others,  vivacious  and  energetic,  whose  dawn 
seems  to  burst  with  the  fire  of  mid-day.  With 
the  one,  the  first  unquiet  of  the  awakened  sense 
and  of  imagination  reveals  itself  without  noise 
and  translates  itself  into  dreamy  sadness.  With 
the  other,  there  is  violent  and  tumultuous 
agitation.  Maurice  partook  of  both  these  na- 
tures;—  at  times,  sad,  preoccupied,  dreamy; 
then  all  at  once  seized  with  ardors  without  end 
and  without  name  ;  unable  to  remain  in-doors ; 
impetuous,  boiling,  even  a  little  angry ;  and  not 
knowing  to  what  wind  to  throw  the  savage 
energy  that  consumed  him;  but  through  all, 
affectionate  toward  his  father,  full  of  attentions 
for  Madame  de  Fresnes,  adored  by  everybody. 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE, 


45 


Having  constantly  in  his  head  the  wood-carvings 
of  the  old  chateau,  and  the  endless  histories 
that  he  had  heard  for  twenty  years,  he  asked 
himself,  in  great  irritation,  if  his  life  was  to  be 
forever  devoted  to  turning  wood  and  fashioning 
oak,  and  in  listening  at  evening,  with  his  feet 
upon  the  fender  in  the  chimney-corner,  to  the 
eternal  histories  of  the  time  of  exile.  Waiting 
for  something  better,  he  hunted  everywhere  in 
the  region,  and  lamed  his  horses. 

It  was  at  the  height  of  this  explosive  period 
that  Madeleine  arrived.  One  can  judge  of  how 
little  importance,  at  such  an  hour  in  the  des- 
tiny of  this  young  man,  could  be  the  apparition 
of  a  little  girl  of  fourteen  or  fifteen  years,  timid, 
reserved,  silent,  without  too  much  beauty  or 
grace.  He  occupied  himself  with  her  but  little 
more  than  if  she  had  never  quitted  Munich. 
He  departed  at  daylight  every  morning,  and 
did  not  return  till  night.  He  often  passed  a 
week  at  some  neighboring  town  or  chateau. 
If  he  chanced  to  see  Madeleine  at  her  window, 


46  MADELEINE : 


he  nodded  to  her  carelessly.  At  meal-time  he 
addressed  her  an  occasional  insignificant  word. 
When  she  sang  her  "Tyroliennes,"  as  this  was 
always  the  occasion  for  the  Marquise  and  the 
Chevalier  to  speak  of  Nuremberg  and  recall 
the  nut-crackers  of  the  one  and  the  miniatures 
of  the  other,  Maurice  never  failed  to  escape  at 
the  first  note.  One  evening,  however,  as  he 
stood  near  her,  he  could  not  help  noticing  the 
beauty  and  luxuriance  of  her  hair.  He  re- 
marked upon  it,  lifting  with  a  familiar  hand  the 
magnificent  blonde  mass  that  covered  the  head 
of  the  little  German.  The  poor  child  was  so 
unaccustomed  to  being  an  object  of  interest  to 
her  cousin,  that  she  blushed  and  trembled ;  but 
when  she  wished  to  thank  him  with  a  smile, 
Maurice,  fearing  some  new  "  Tyroliennes,"  had 
already  escaped.  Another  time,  returning  from 
the  chase,  he  gave  her  a  pretty  pheasant  that 
he  had  rescued  alive  from  his  dogs. 

"  My  cousin,  then  you  think   sometimes   of 
me?"  inquired   the  young  girl,  much  affected. 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  47 

But    Maurice    had    already   turned    upon    his 
heel. 

It  was  not  that  he  saw  with  jealous  dis- 
pleasure the  presence  of  the  orphan  under  the 
paternal  roof.  Far  from  that ;  if  he  had  all 
the  hot-headedness  of  his  age,  he  had  also  its 
noble  and  generous  instincts.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  dispute  any  place  that 
Madeleine  might  one  day  have  in  the  will  of 
the  Chevalier.  Let  us  also  say,  in  passing, 
that  such  shameful  calculations  rarely  enter 
the  heart  at  twenty  years.  Maurice  was  as 
ready  to  share  with  his  cousin  as  with  a  sister; 
and  if  he  was  not  more  tender  and  attentive 
to  her,  it  was  simply  because  she  had  not  come 
into  the  world  fifteen  or  twenty  months  sooner 
than  she  did.  The  Marquise  and  the  Chevalier 
did  not  at  first  comprehend  the  abrupt  change 
in  Maurice,  whom  they  had  hitherto  found  so 
simple  in  taste  and  so  even  in  temper.  They 
both  distressed  themselves,  without  understand- 
ing why.  They  had  been  young  at  a  time 


48  MADELEINE: 


when  youth  wasted  itself,  right  and  left,  in 
little  distractions  and  elegant  frivolities ;  with- 
out a  thought  of  that  heavy  unrest  and  pro- 
found weariness  which  later  was  the  martyrdom 
of  a  generation.  Although  reared  in  the  re- 
tirement of  the  country,  Maurice  had  submitted 
to  the  influence  of  the  new  ideas.  Ideas  are 
living  forces,  mixed  with  the  air  we  breathe. 
The  wind  carries  and  sows  them  everywhere ; 
and  do  what  one  can  to  escape  these  invisible 
currents  —  though  he  keep  to  one  side  or  in 
the  distance  —  he  is  yet  penetrated  and  impreg- 
nated, for  he  is  always  the  child  of  his  century. 
That  which  was  most  surprising  to  the 
Chevalier  and  the  Marquise  was  not  the 
devouring  need  of  activity,  which  was  naturally 
explained  by  the  heated  blood  of  youth,  but  the 
sombre  melancholy  in  which  its  ardor  and 
impetuosity  seemed  lost.  But  in  fact,  how 
could  they  comprehend  the  malady  of  an  epoch 
when  gaiety,  exiled  from  the  heart  of  twenty 
years,  found  a  home  under  the  white  hairs  of 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  49 

age  ?  After  discussing  the  question,  they  arrived 
at  the  conclusion  that  the  life  which  Maurice 
had  led  till  then  was  neither  profitable  nor 
amusing;  and  that,  in  spite  of  the  incomparable 
charms  of  wood-carving,  it  was  not  surprising 
that  a  young  heart  was  not  entirely  absorbed  by 
it.  That  was  the  opinion  of  the  Marquise  :  the 
Chevalier  ended  by  agreeing  with  her.  The 
question  was,  what  to  do.  They  spoke  at  first 
of  a  marriage ;  but  that  remedy  seemed  a  little 
too  violent.  Besides,  the  Marquise  observed, 
with  reason,  that  young  men  of  rank  in  that 
generation  did  not  marry  at  twenty ;  and  that,  in 
another  respect,  unlike  the  old  times,  marriage 
had  become  less  a  commencement  than  an  end. 
In  brief,  after  ripe  reflection,  it  was  decided  to 
send  Maurice  for  two  or  three  years  to  Paris, 
and  then,  at  his  choice,  to  Germany  or  Italy; 
thus  to  complete  his  education  by  a  profound 
study  of  men  and  things.  This  programme 
was  not  much  more  vague  than  that  usually 
traced  for  the  sons  of  families  in  the  Provinces, 

4 


5o  MADELEINE: 


before  putting  the  bridle-rein  on  their  necks  and 
launching  them  into  the  life  of  Paris. 
»  Some  time  after,  on  an  Autumn  evening 
which  was  the  anniversary  of  Madeleine's 
arrival,  the  Chevalier,  his  son,  and  the  Marquise 
were  re-united  in  the  chateau  of  Valtravers. 
The  horse  that  was  to  take  Maurice  to  the 
neighboring  town  through  which  passed  the 
mail-route,  waited,  saddled  and  bridled,  at  the 
door.  It  was  the  hour  of  adieu.  A  parting  has 
always  something  sad  and  solemn,  even  when 
the  separation  is  but  temporary.  The  Chevalier 
seemed  painfully  affected.  The  Marquise  con- 
cealed her  depression  poorly.  Maurice  himself 
appeared  much  agitated;  and  when  his  old 
father  opened  his  arms,  he  threw  himself  into 
them,  weeping  as  if  he  embraced  him  for  the 
last  time.  Madame  de  Fresnes  pressed  the 
young  man  to  her  heart  with  emotion.  The  old 
house-servants,  who  had  been  present  at  his 
birth,  embraced  him  as  their  child. 

Time   passed.      Maurice  tore   himself  from 


A    STOR  Y  OF  FRENCH  LO  VE.  5  r 

the  farewells  of  his  friends.  At  the  last 
moment,  as  he  was  about  to  put  his  foot  in  the 
stirrup,  he  remembered  Madeleine.  Surprised 
at  her  absence,  he  was  about  to  send  for  her, 
when  he  was  told  that  the  young  girl  had  left 
the  chateau  several  hours  before.  Leaving 
some  affectionate  words  of  adieu  for  his  cousin, 
he  moved  away  at  the  slow  walk  of  his  horse, 
turning  often  with  gestures  of  salutation  to  the 
kind  beings  who  followed  him  with  their  eyes. 
Arrived  at  the  gate  of  the  park  he  hesitated  like 
a  young  eagle  on  the  edge  of  its  nest  before 
launching  itself  in  space.  He  recalled  the 
happy  days  that  he  had  passed  in  the  shade  of 
this  pretty  manor,  between  the  care  of  the 
Marquise  and  the  tenderness  of  his  father.  He 
seemed  to  see  through  the  trees  the  gracious 
phantom  of  his  youth,  that  regarded  him  with 
sadness  and  tried  to  detain  him.  He  seemed 
to  hear  voices  that  said,  "  Ingrate,  where  do  you 
go  ?  "  His  heart  swelled  to  bursting,  and  his 
eyes  moistened  with  tears.  But  his  destiny 


52  MADELEINE: 


controlled  him.  He  plunged  into  the  forest 
that  he  must  cross  to  reach  the  town. 

At  the  end  of  a  rapid  ride,  at  the  very  place 
where  he  had  met  her  a  year  before  at  the  same 
day  and  hour,  he  saw  Madeleine,  seated  and 
dreaming.  As  before,  she  had  not  heard  the 
sound  of  his  gallop  upon  the  moss.  Lifting 
her  eyes,  she  saw  her  cousin  regarding  her.  It 
was  the  same  frame  and  the  same  picture. 
Nothing  was  changed,  only  in  place  of  an  unde- 
veloped child,  frail  and  delicate,  without  beauty 
and  almost  without  grace,  he  saw  a  fair  face, 
around  which  there  had  commenced  to  hover  a 
bright  host  of  the  sweet  dreams  of  youth.  It 
was  not  yet  the  flower  in  bloom ;  but  the 
bud  had  opened  its  leaves.  It  was  not  the 
Aurora,  but  the  misty  white  dawn  of  awaken- 
ing Nature,  trembling  under  the  first  kiss  of 
Morning. 

Maurice  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and 
hastened  to  embrace  his  cousin  and  to  say 
adieu.  Again  in  the  saddle,  he  pursued  his 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


53 


route,  without  knowing,  alas!  that  he  left  happi- 
ness behind  him. 

When  he  had  disappeared  at  the  bend  of  the 
avenue,  Madeleine  returned  to  the  chateau. 
Entering  the  drawing-room  she  found  the 
Chevalier  seated  by  his  deserted  fireside.  She 
walked  sadly  to  the  back  of  the  chair  in  which 
the  old  man  sat  in  a  bent  attitude,  and  for  some 
minutes  contemplated  him  in  silence. 

"  My  father,"  she  said,  bending  toward  him 
her  blonde  head,  "  my  father,  you  have  still  a 
daughter." 

The  Chevalier  smiled,  and  drew  her  softly  to 
his  heart. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

ATER  the  departure  of  Maurice,  Madeleine 
became  the  joy  of  Valtravers;  enlivening 
with  her  growing  graces  the  household  which 
was  no  longer  animated  by  his  presence.  Like 
a  young  Antigone,  she  redoubled  toward  her  old 
uncle  her  pious  and  tender  care.  Though  her 
heart  was  still  sad,  and  her  spirit  more  reflect- 
ive than  is  usual  at  her  age,  yet,  to  divert 
him,  she  forgot  herself,  and  transformed  her 
natural  gravity  into  a  smiling  serenity.  She 
accompanied  him  in  all  his  excursions ;  lingered 
around  him  in  his  workshop;  read  aloud  his 
journals ;  encouraged  him  in  recounting  the  old 
stories  of  his  exile ;  and  never  failed  to  go 
into  ecstacies  before  each  piece  of  carving  with 

54 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


55 


which  this  indefatigable  artist  encumbered  every 
corner  of  the  chateau.  At  the  same  time,  she 
was  a  devoted  daughter  to  the  Marquise,  who 
taught  her  painting,  and  whose  highest  pleasure 
was  in  cultivating  the  charms  that  God  had 
given  her.  Thus  loved  and  guarded  by  these 
two  old  people,  this  orphan  child  grew  in 
talents  and  in  virtue. 

In  the  three  years  succeeding  her  arrival, 
Madeleine  had  developed  into  a  good  and 
beautiful  creature;  though  not  of  that  acquired 
and  conventional  beauty  which  marks  the  hero- 
ines of  poets  and  romancers.  Her  figure  was 
neither  large  nor  small,  and  had  not  the  flexi- 
bility of  the  willow.  A  critic  devoted  to  the 
plastic  side  of  art  would  have  found  something 
to  remodel  in  the  oval  of  her  face.  Her  hair, 
which  had  grown  darker,  could  not  truthfully 
be  compared  either  with  the  black  of  ebony  or 
the  sheen  of  gold.  Though  her  skin  had  that 
heavy  whiteness  of  the  camellia  which  defies 
the  effects  of  sun  and  air,  her  eyes  were  more 


56  MADELEINE: 

gray  than  blue.  If  her  teeth  were  even  and 
white  as  the  pearls  of  a  necklace,  the  mouth 
was  rather  large,  the  lips  were  a  little  heavy. 
Her  lashes  did  not  fall  upon  her  cheek  like 
the  fringe  of  a  gentian ;  and  the  line  of  the 
nose  recalled  but  vaguely  the  straight  noses 
of  royal  races.  Yet  such  a  face  and  figure 
may  form  a  pleasing  whole  in  which  imperfec- 
tions of  detail  are  lost,  harmonizing  so  well 
that  each  one  appears  but  a  new  charm.  I 
love  this  style  of  beauty,  which  is  less  correct 
than  sympathetic,  which  captivates  the  heart 
more  than  the  eyes,  and  which,  without  any- 
thing to  dazzle  or  fascinate  the  first  view,  is 
always  ready  to  reveal,  to  those  who  can  com- 
prehend it,  some  unexpected  grace,  some  new 
enchantment.  Although  she  occupied  herself 
closely  with  domestic  affairs,  the  practical  wis- 
dom and  judgment  that  she  brought  to  these 
duties  did  not  preclude  a  certain  air  of  dis- 
tinction, a  cast  of  spirit  romantic,  poetic, 
dreamy,  that  she  inherited  at  the  same  time 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


57 


from  her  mother,  from  Germany,  and  from 
God. 

One  can  readily  imagine  the  attachment  that 
was  formed  between  Madeleine,  the  Marquise, 
and  the  Chevalier.  She  was  the  light  of  their 
old  age,  the  soft  ray  which  illumined  the  end  of 
their  days.  Mixed  and  blended,  these  three 
existences  ran  in  slow  and  peaceful  waves. 
But  it  sometimes  happened  that  these  waves, 
usually  so  pure,  were  troubled. 

The  letters  of  Maurice  were  at  first  full  of 
charm  and  poesy;  fresh  and  perfumed  like  the 
bouquets  that  are  gathered  in  the  dew  of  the 
fields.  It  is  thus  that  one  writes  at  the  happy 
age  which  flies  so  quickly.  At  the  hour  when 
life  commences  its  decline,  have  you  never 
found,  in  the  depths  of  an  old  drawer,  some 
such  letters  of  your  youth  ?  Have  they  not 
surprised  you?  In  reading  them,  have  you  not 
seen  pass  across  your  tears  the  image  of  your 
beautiful  past?  Have  you  not  asked  yourself 
if  it  was  indeed  the  same  spring,  now  ready  to 


5  8  MADELEINE: 


dry  up,  which  poured  out  all  these  treasures  of 
enthusiasm  and  of  faith,  of  grace  and  of  virtue, 
of  happiness  and  of  love  ?  It  was  such  letters 
that  Maurice  wrote  at  twenty  years. 

The  days  of  the  letter-courier  were  joyful 
ones  at  Valtravers.  As  far  as  she  could  see 
the  post-man,  Madeleine  ran  to  meet  him,  and 
returned  triumphantly  to  the  chateau.  Ordina- 
rily it  was  she  who  read,  in  a  clear  voice,  her 
cousin's  letters.  When  —  as  did  not  always 
happen — she  found  in  them  her  name,  her 
bosom  heaved,  and  a  rosy  tint,  almost  imper- 
ceptible, colored  for  a  moment  the  alabaster  of 
her  face.  If  there  was  no  mention  of  her  —  as 
more  often  was  the  case  —  she  was  grave  and 
silent  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  These  letters  of 
Maurice  made  all  the  fibres  of  the  good  Cheva- 
lier's heart  to  vibrate;  for  he  could  trace, 
beneath  the  outbursts  of  their  passionate  ten- 
derness, the  development  of  an  elevated  spirit 
and  of  a  lively  intelligence.  Sometimes  old 
friends  at  Paris  would  write  to  congratulate  him 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


59 


upon  his  son.  All  seemed  promising  for  the 
best;  and  they  already  began  to  speak  of  the 
happiness  of  his  return. 

But  at  the  end  of  a  year,  the  letters  of  our 
young  friend  became  rarer  and  briefer,  less  and 
less  affectionate  and  tender.  Vague  in  thought 
and  constrained  in  expression,  they  betrayed  a 
great  disquiet  of  the  senses  and  of  the  soul. 
The  little  family  began  by  distressing  itself  in 
silence  ;  it  soon  became  seriously  alarmed.  To 
the  indulgent  reproaches  that  were  addressed  to 
him,  Maurice  returned  evasive  responses.  The 
term  fixed  for  his  stay  in  Paris  had  long  since 
expired ;  but  he  showed  no  disposition  to  leave, 
though  it  had  been  decided  that  he  should  go 
from  there  to  Germany  or  Italy.  To  the 
Chevalier,  who  pressed  this,  Maurice  at  first  did 
not  reply.  Then,  pushed  to  extremes  by  the 
persistence  of  his  father,  he  answered  in  lan- 
guage through  which  shone  an  impatience  of 
control.  If  the  Chevalier's  old  friends  still 
wrote  to  him,  it  was  to  express  their  regrets  at 


60  MADELEINE  : 


seeing  no  more  the  Maurice  of  the  past.  At 
last  an  explosion  came  in  the  form  of  some 
heavy  drafts  upon  the  honest  manor,  which  was 
stricken  with  affright. 

These  things  were  not  accomplished  in  a 
week,  nor  even  in  a  month.  It  had  taken  little 
less  than  three  years  to  reach  this  point.  And 
there  were  other  troubles.  If,  by  virtue  of  the 
pretexts,  more  or  less  specious,  with  which 
Maurice  tried  to  excuse  his  wanderings,  M.  de 
Valtravers  could  have  kept  up  any  illusions  as 
to  the  conduct  of  his  son,  the  good  souls  with 
which  the  Provinces  abound  would  not  have 
failed  to  lift  the  illusions  from  him.  The 
Chevalier  was  a  perfect  gentleman,  in  the  most 
beautiful  acceptation  of  this  word,  which  has 
become  so  common  since  the  thing  is  so  rare. 
Accessible  to  all,  with  a  charming  spirit,  a  noble 
heart,  a  loyal  character,  he  had  yet  many 
enemies  in  the  country;  not  among  his  peas- 
antry, who  loved  him,  but  at  the  neighboring 
town,  where  there  were  some  officers  and  some 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  61 

lawyers — pillars  of  the  coffee-houses,  leaders  of 
liberalism,  and  vermin  of  the  Province  —  who 
had  never  pardoned  him  for  having  re-entered 
his  possessions.  All  the  town  had  long  known 
the  kind  of  life  young  Valtravers  led  at  Paris; 
for  the  Province  is  a  good  mother,  who  never 
forgets  her  absent  sons.  She  follows  them 
through  life  with  an  eager  eye,  curious  and 
jealous,  always  ready  to  overwhelm  those  who 
fall,  in  order  to  avenge  herself  for  those  who 
rise.  In  general,  if  you  wish  to  throw  despair 
and  consternation  into  the  haunts  of  men  who 
have  seen  you  born  and  grow  up,  arrive  with 
your  head  high  and  by  a  straight  path  at  suc- 
cess, honors,  and  fortune.  If,  on  the  contrary, 
it  pleases  you  to  diffuse  there  a  sweet  joy,  run 
into  all  possible  errors,  that  your  virtuous  fel- 
low-citizens may  weep  over  your  ruin.  For 
when  our  fellow-citizens  weep  over  us,  it  is  to 
hide  their  laughter. 

Maurice  had   for   some   time   been   for    the 
town    in    question     a    marvellous    subject    of 


62  MADELEINE: 


public  scandal  and  internal  satisfaction.  Trai- 
torously hidden  under  the  mantle  of  pity, 
hate  gives  free  vent  to  its  joy.  Nothing 
failed  the  poor  Chevalier;  neither  charitable 
warnings  nor  hypocritical  condolence.  Anony- 
mous letters  did  the  rest.  The  Marquise 
wept  in  secret.  The  Chevalier  wasted  himself 
with  grief.  Happiness  seemed  to  have  fled 
from  under  the  roof  of  these  old  friends. 
Madeleine  went  from  one  to  the  other  like 
an  angel  of  consolation.  She  defended  Maurice, 
and  spoke  constantly  of  his  speedy  return ; 
though  she  really  believed  in  it  no  longer,  and 
often  hid  herself  to  conceal  her  tears.  It 
was  easy  to  see  that  the  Chevalier  was 
seriously  affected;  for  having  commenced  to 
neglect  wood-carving,  he  presently  aban- 
doned it  entirely.  He  had  no  more  taste  for 
anything.  Madeleine  alone  knew  how  to 
unwrinkle  his  forehead,  and  to  bring  to  his 
lips  a  faint  smile.  He  would  sometimes  say  : 
"  Poor  child!  before  I  die  I  need  to  make  sure 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  63 

thy  destiny;  for  in  the  way  he  is  going,  it  is 
not  Maurice  who  will  watch  over  thee  when 
I  am  gone."  "Come,  come,  my  father," 
Madeleine  would  reply,  "  do  not  trouble  yourself 
about  that.  I  wish  for  nothing  but  your  love. 
I  shall  have  need  of  nothing  when  you  are 
gone.  I  am  old  enough  to  watch  over  myself. 
I  have  resolution  and  courage,  thank  God! 
and  what  you  have  done  in  my  Germany,  you 
and  the  Marquise,  I  will  do  in  your  France. 
I  will  work.  Why  not?"  The  old  man 
smiled,  and  tremblingly  shook  his  head. 

The  young  girl  one  day  wrote  secretly  to 
her  cousin  an  admirable  letter;  but  Maurice 
never  replied.  As  for  the  old  Chevalier,  he 
wrote  no  more;  and  in  those  last  days  he 
scarcely  permitted  anyone  to  speak  in  his 
presence  of  his  son.  As  he  grew  more  and 
more  feeble,  and  felt  the  end  approaching,  he 
decided  to  throw  to  this  unhappy  young  man 
a  last  cry  of  love  and  of  despair.  The  response 
was  slow  in  coming.  After  three  months  of 


64  MADELEINE  : 


waiting,  it  arrived.  It  said  that,  absent  from 
Paris  nearly  a  year,  traveling  I  know  not 
where,  in  company  with  I  know  not  whom, 
Maurice  had  received  on  his  return  the  last 
counsel  of  his  father.  God  be  praised !  the 
young  man  awoke  to  better  sentiments.  His 
letter  proved  it.  It  showed  the  distress  of  a 
fallen  soul,  which,  by  a  supreme  effort,  tries  to 
uplift  itself.  He  embraced  the  knees  of  his 
father;  he  covered  with  tears  and  kisses  the 
hand  of  the  Marquise ;  Madeleine  found  herself 
mixed  in  the  effusion  of  his  repentance.  He 
only  asked  a  few  weeks  in  which  to  break 
with  these  wretched  ties,  and  then  he  would 
return.  He  would  say  an  eternal  adieu  to  that 
world  in  which  he  had  wandered.  Beaten  by 
the  tempest,  he  would  enter  the  port  of  home, 
and  quit  it  no  more. — "Paternal  roof!  I  shall 
see  thee  again.  I  return  to  the  home  of  my 
childhood.  Dear  companions  of  my  young 
years !  I  shall  press  you  to  my  heart.  You 
also,  little  cousin." —  Exalted  by  these  lively 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  65 

images,  his  imagination  had  found  for  an  instant 
the  grace  and  freshness  of  youth.  Unhappily, 
when  this  letter  arrived  at  the  chateau,  for 
twenty-four  hours  the  Chevalier  had  been  no 
more.  He  had  died  the  evening  before,  at 
the  window,  to  which  they  had  rolled  his 
chair,  between  the  Marquise  and  Madeleine, 
who  each  held  him  by  the  hand. 

The  day  of  the  funeral,  when  the  earth 
covered  all  that  was  left  below  of  this  excellent 
being  that  chance  had  made  a  gentleman  and 
that  work  and  poverty  had  made  a  man,  the 
Marquise  affectionately  embraced  Madeleine, 
made  an  orphan  for  the. second  time. 

"  My  child,"  said  she  to  her,  "  thy  work 
is  not  accomplished.  Thou  hast  yet  to  aid 
me  to  die,  and  to  close  my  eyes." 

They  threw  themselves  into  each  other's 
arms,  and  remained  thus  a  long  time. 

"Ah!"  cried  the  Marquise,  "since  you 
have  restored  to  me  my  daughter,  it  is  only 
just  that  I  take  the  place  of  thy  mother." 


66  MADELEINE  ; 


From  this  day,  Madeleine  lived  at  the 
Chateau  de  Fresnes. 

A  week  before  his  death,  the  old  Chevalier 
had  put  into  the  hands  of  the  Marquise  an 
autograph  will,  by  which  he  had  left  to  his 
niece  the  small  farm  of  Coudray,  of  the  value 
of  eighty  or  a  hundred  thousand  francs.  This 
will  was  expressed  in  the  most  touching  and 
affectionate  terms.  All  the  exquisite  delicacy 
of  the  Chevalier  there  showed  itself.  When, 
to  re-assure  her  as  to  the  future,  Madame  de 
Fresnes  confided  to  Madeleine  this  precious 
proof  of  the  love  of  her  uncle,  by  an  impulse 
of  pious  gratitude,  the  young  girl  pressed  it  to 
her  lips  and  against  her  heart.  Then,  tearing 
it  to  pieces,  she  put  the  shreds  in  her  breast. 

"  My  daughter!  what  have  you  done  ? "  cried 
the  Marquise,  apparently  surprised,  but  really 
delighted. 

"  Can  a  heart  noble  as  yours  ask  ? "  replied 
Madeleine,  smiling.  "  I  know  nothing  of  the 
life  of  Maurice.  I  am  only  sure  that  he  will 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  67 

have  need  of  all  his  resources;  and  I  should 
but  poorly  recognize  his  father's  goodness  if  I 
took  from  the  son  part  of  his  inheritance.  You 
could  not  have  acted  otherwise,  in  my  place." 

"  But,  my  poor  child,  thou  hast  nothing.  I 
cannot  counsel  thee  to  trust  to  the  devotion 
of  Maurice ;  and  when  I  am  gone  —  and  I 
have  not  a  long  time  to  stay  —  what  will  be- 
come of  thee  ? " 

"That  which  becomes  of  anyone  who  has 
courage  and  a  good  will.  Am  I  not,  thanks  to 
your  lessons,  as  rich  as  you  were  when  you 
arrived  in  Nuremberg?  The  God  who  aided 
you  will  not  abandon  me ;  and  I  will  make  my 
nest  as  you  have  made  yours." 

*  You  are  a  brave  girl ! "  said  the  Marquise, 
taking  between  her  withered  white  hands  the 
head  of  Madeleine. 

Every  day  they  expected  Maurice,  whom  the 
death  of  his  father  had  stricken  like  a  thunder- 
bolt. But  weeks  and  months  ran  by,  and  he 
did  not  come.  They  soon  learned  that  he  had 


68  MADELEINE  : 


sent  a  power-of-attorney  to  arrange  the  affairs 
of  his  inheritance.  He  had  written  to  his 
cousin,  offering  her,  without  either  enthusiasm 
or  bad  grace,  a  generous  portion  in  the  estate 
of  his  father.  It  was  precisely  this  same  little 
farm  of  Coudray,  which,  without  his  knowledge, 
the  orphan  had  already  so  generously  re- 
nounced. The  young  girl  replied  simply,  that, 
living  with  Madame  de  Fresnes,  she  had  need 
of  nothing.  The  young  man  did  not  insist. 
What  had  become  of  his  good  resolutions? 
Restrained  by  respect,  and  perhaps  by  remorse, 
he  dared  not.  look  upon  a  tomb  that,  without 
too  much  rigor,  he  could  accuse  himself  of 
having  made  before  its  time.  They  credited 
him  with  reserve,  and  did  not  doubt  that  later 
he  would  come  to  Valtravers  with  his  offering 
of  expiation.  Whilst  at  the  Chateau  de  Fres- 
nes they  solaced  themselves  in  this  last  hope, 
a  few  steps  from  there  the  mortgages  fell  like 
rain.  Scarcely  a  year  after  the  death  of  the 
old  Chevalier,  the  news  ran  through  the  country 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  69 

that  the  domain  and  chateau  of  Valtravers  were 
to  be  offered  at  public  sale.  The  Marquise 
and  Madeleine  refused  to  believe  it,  and  cried 
out  against  the  calumny,  as  they  had  done  so 
many  times  in  defending  Maurice  against  the 
comments  of  the  Province.  One  day,  however, 
as  they  were  walking  together  in  the  forest, 
they  saw  through  the  gate  of  the  park  at  Val- 
travers a  number  of  servants  and  peasants  who 
looked  at  one  another  with  an  air  of  consterna- 
tion. Influenced  partly  by  their  presentiments, 
and  partly  by  curiosity,  they  advanced  toward 
the  manor. 

"Ah!  Madame  la  Marquise.  Ah!  Madem- 
oiselle Madeleine !  "  cried  the  people,  as  they 
drew  near.  "What  a  terrible  misfortune  for 
us !  The  thunderbolt  has  fallen  upon  our 
heads.  It  is  the  ruin  of  our  lives." 

"  What  is  it,  my  children  ?  What  has  hap- 
pened to  you  ? "  asked  Madame  de  Fresnes. 

"  See  !  see !  Madame  la  Marquise !  What 
will  our  good  master  the  Chevalier  think  of 


MADELEINE  : 


this  in  Heaven? "  And  with  frightened  gestures, 
they  showed  the  door  of  the  chateau,  dishon- 
ored by  immense  placards  that  announced  the 
sale. 

Doubt  was  no  longer  possible.  Madeleine 
drooped  her  head,  and  silent  tears  rolled  down 
her  cheeks.  Until  then  she  had  never  under- 
stood all  of  the  comments  she  had  heard 
upon  the  conduct  of  Maurice.  In  her  heart 
she  had  always  absolved  him.  This  time,  all 
her  noble  instincts  in  revolt  cried  unpityingly 
that  the  young  man  was  lost. 

The  Marquise  felt  her  forehead  redden  with 
the  indignant  blood  of  her  heart — that  gen- 
erous heart  that  age  had  not  yet  cooled. 

"  No,  my  children ! "  she  cried  resolutely. 
"  Whilst  I  live,  this  domain  and  this  chateau 
shall  not  become  the  prey  of  these  harpies. 
These  villains  shall  not  have  such  a  pleasure. 
Be  comforted,  my  friends.  You  shall  remain 
upon  the  farms  where  you  were  born,  in  this 
home  where  you  have  grown  old;  nothing  shall 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  7I 

be  changed  in  your  lives.  Take  my  word  for  it, 
and  go  and  console  your  wives  and  children." 

Without  delay,  she  sent  for  her  notary,  and 
put  in  his  hands  deeds  which  represented  the 
best  part  of  her  fortune,  directing  him  to  con- 
vert them  into  money  and  buy  the  entire  prop- 
erty enumerated  in  the  announcement  of  the  sale. 

And  so,  one  bright  morning,  the  Marquise 
found  herself  proprietress  of  the  domain  of 
Valtravers.  She  still  continued  to  live  with 
Madeleine  in  the  Chateau  de  Fresnes,  where 
her  daughter  had  died,  and  where  she  wished 
to  die.  Alas!  this  last  blow  struck  fatally  the 
beloved  Marquise.  For  some  time  she  had 
felt  herself  irresistibly  drawn  by  the  impatient 
soul  of  her  old  companion. 

"  What  would  you  have  ? "  said  she  to 
Madeleine.  "For  so  long  a  time  we  were 
never  separated.  Without  speaking  of  the 
Marquis,  whom  thou  hast  not  known,  I  am 
sure  that  my  poor  Chevalier  wearies  himself 
in  Paradise,  not  to  see  me.  It  is  wicked  in 


7  2  MADELEINE  : 


me  to  make  him  wait  so  long.  That  which 
embarrasses  me  is  to  know  what  I  shall  say 
to  him  when  he  asks  me  for  news  of  his  son." 
The  evening  of  her  death,  awakening  from 
a  long  unconsciousness,  Madame  de  Fresnes 
said  to  Madeleine,  who  waited  at  her  bedside: 
"  I  have  had  a  strange  dream.  I  saw  Maurice 
in  the  depths  of  an  abyss.  Horrible  serpents 
crawled  and  hissed  at  his  feet.  The  unhappy 
youth  exhausted  himself  in  desperate  efforts 
to  remount  to  the  regions  of  day.  I  wished 
to  run  to  his  aid,  but  felt  my  feet  chained  to 
the  ground.  I  extended  toward  him  my  feeble 
hands,  when  suddenly  I  saw  thee  arrive  from 
afar,  calm  and  serene.  At  the  side  of  the 
abyss,  after  having  untied  thy  white  scarf 
which  surrounded  thy  throat  and  floated  upon 
thy  shoulders,  I  saw  thee  throw  it  smilingly 
tc  Maurice,  who  seized  it  and  was  drawn  up 
without  effort;  and  by  thy  side  he  appeared 
radiant  and  transfigured.  Behold  my  dream 
—  what  thinkest  thou,  my  daughter?" 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


73 


A  faint  glow  lit  the  lips  of  Madeleine,  who 
remained  pensive  and  in  silence. 

The  Marquise  died  the  following  day;  or, 
to  express  it  better,  she  went  to  sleep  in  the 
arms  of  the  young  girl,  to  whom  her  beautiful 
soul  said  good-night  in  her  last  smile. 

Some  hours  before  her  death,  she  had  said 
gaily,  "  I  have  not  forgotten  thee  in  my  will. 
Since  thou  hast  a  taste  for  miniature-painting, 
I  have  left  thee  my  colors  and  my  brushes. 
Try  with  these  to  find  a  husband." 

At  the  opening  of  the  will,  Madeleine  found 
that  Madame  de  Fresnes  had  spoken  truly ; 
only  to  this  little  legacy  the  Marquise  had 
added  the  domain  and  the  chateau  of  Val- 
travers  —  leaving  still  a  large  portion  to  her 
natural  heirs,  who  were  not  in  want. 

Thus  this  young  girl  re-entered  as  sovereign 
the  house  where,  one  Autumn  evening  five 
years  before,  she  had  arrived  with  her  little 
packet  in  her  hand. 


CHAPTER   V. 

C,SS  elated  than  one  would  have  believed 
from  her  new  position,  Madeleine  rever- 
ently re-entered  the  chateau  where  all  the  old 
servants  had  seen  her  grow  from  girlhood  to 
womanhood,  and  where  now  she  was  loved  and 
received  like  a  young  queen.  She  lived  there, 
as  in  the  past,  modestly  and  quietly,  solely 
occupied  with  the  beings  confided  to  her  care. 
Her  authority  only  revealed  itself  in  the 
profusion  of  benefits  that  she  shed  around  her. 
In  all  other  respects,  no  one  would  have 
suspected  any  change  in  her  fortune,  but  would 
have  said  that  she  was  still  the  same  little 
orphan  who  had  been  sheltered  by  the  charity 
of  her  uncle.  Her  only  command  was  that 
nothing  should  be  changed  in  the  manner  of  life 

74 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


75 


at  the  chateau ;  that  all  the  customs  of  the  old 
Chevalier  should  be  respected  as  absolutely  as 
if  he  were  not  dead,  and  might  return  at  any 
moment.  For  her  own  use,  she  selected  the 
little  chamber  in  which  she  had  spent  the  last 
days  of  her  childhood  and  the  first  years  of  her 
youth.  Whenever  the  servants  came  to  her  for 
directions  in  any  matter  of  moment,  she  never 
failed  to  inquire  what  the  Chevalier  would  have 
done  in  like  circumstances.  If  counsel  or 
reproof  was  needed,  she  always  began  it  by 
some  such  phrase  as,  "  I  believe,  my  children, 
that  your  good  master  the  Chevalier  would  have 

said ."     She  repeated  often   that   the   best 

way  to  honor  the  memory  of  those  who  have 
loved  us  is  to  do  nothing  to  distress  them,  and 
to  ask  ourselves  before  acting  what  they  would 
have  thought  if  they  were  yet  here.  When  she 
spoke  of  Maurice,  it  was  with  the  respect  that 
might  be  due  to  a  young  king  upon  whose 
kingdom  she  administered  during  his  minority. 
She  was  less  queen  than  regent. 


76  MADELEINE: 


The  news  of  her  prosperity  ran  through  the 
country,  and  suitors  were  not  slow  to  present 
themselves.  Valtravers  became  a  Mecca,  to 
which  journeyed  the  bachelors  of  the  Province. 
In  Summer,  one  could  see  a  long  file  of  these 
pilgrims  marching  toward  the  sacred  place  to 
pay  their  devotions.  Little  country  squires, 
ruined  gentlemen,  younger  sons,  bachelors, 
young  and  old,  in  willow  carriages,  on  foot,  or 
on  worn-out  jades,  came  from  all  points  to  recite 
their  pater-nosters  at  this  shrine.  Though 
serious  and  reflective,  Madeleine  had  that  frank 
and  hearty  gaiety  which  flows  naturally  from  a 
pure  conscience,  an  upright  heart,  and  a  healthy 
spirit.  She  replied  to  these  faithful  ones  that  it 
was  an  edifying  spectacle  to  see  a  poor  orphan 
become  all  at  once  the  object  of  so  pure  a 
worship,  of  attentions  so  disinterested.  She 
had  heard,  she  said,  in  Germany,  that  France 
was  the  country  of  pious  souls  and  generous 
hearts ;  but  she  never  before  suspected  that  they 
carried  so  far  the  religious  duty  of  caring  for 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


77 


the  unfortunate.  She  confessed  that  though 
touched  almost  to  tears,  she  had  only  one 
regret  :  that  she  was  so  content  and  happy  in 
her  humble  condition  that  she  did  not  wish  to 
change  it  for  the  rare  honor  they  came  to  offer 
her.  Thus,  one  by  one,  these  devoted  and  pious 
personages  were  dismissed. 

Madeleine  had  always  replied  in  something 
of  the  same  manner  when  the  Chevalier  or  the 
Marquise  had  spoken  to  her  of  marrying.  She 
had  decided  that  she  would  not  marry.  If  such 
was  her  taste,  I  approve  it ;  never  having  under- 
stood the  ridicule  which  attaches  to  old  maids. 
I  esteem  far  more  highly  the  woman  who  resigns 
herself  to  grow  old  in  solitude  than  the  one 
who  consents  to  mismate  her  heart  or  her  soul. 

Disincumbered  of  her  suitors,  Madeleine 
continued  to  live  in  her  retreat,  dividing  her 
days  between  the  care  of  her  little  empire, 
works  of  charity,  and  the  culture  of  the  arts 
that  she  loved.  She  had  exhumed  from  her 
uncle's  library  some  good  old  books  that  had 


7 8  MADELEINE  : 


done  much  to  ripen  her  intelligence.  In  her 
smiling  gravity,  in  her  calm  and  serene  beauty, 
at  twenty -one  years  of  age  she  was  a  living 
representative  of  good  sense,  of  reason,  of  grace 
and  poesy;  like  the  flowers  that  draw  up  the 
sweets  of  the  earth  by  their  roots,  and  drink 
at  the  same  time  in  their  chalices  the  balmy 
dew  of  heaven.  Her  religion  was  not  simply 
a  matter  of  mass  at  Neuvy-les-Bois,  but  she 
visited  often  and  willingly  the  miserable  village 
that  she  had  entered  so  poor  and  forlorn,  and 
where  she  now  had  her  own  poor  and  her 
orphans  who  blessed  her.  Upon  such  visits, 
she  rarely  failed  to  stop  for  a  moment  at  the 
house  of  the  good  woman  who,  when  she  first 
entered  the  place  five  years  before,  had  so  char- 
itably offered  her  refreshment  and  repose.  But 
as  for  Monsieur  Pierrot,  she  never  succeeded 
in  coming  near  him.  Whether  it  was  because 
in  her  presence  he  felt  himself  crushed  with 
remorse,  or  feared  that  she  would  seek  to 
reclaim  the  piece  of  silver  that  he  had  so 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


79 


easily  gained,  the   scamp  put  in  play  both  his 
legs  whenever  he  saw  her  in  the  distance. 

When  the  funereal  tints  that  death  leaves 
after  it  were  dispelled  from  around  Madeleine, 
when  time  had  changed  to  smiling  shadows 
the  spectres  of  her  grief,  this  young  girl  would 
have  deemed  herself  happy  in  the  midst  of 
her  duties  but  for  one  constant  and  increasing 
anxiety.  Where  was  Maurice  ?  What  was  he 
doing?  The  only  signs  of  life  he  had  given 
since  his  father's  death  were  the  ravages  in 
his  estate  caused  by  his  growing  excesses. 
Before  taking  possession  of  Valtravers,  Made- 
leine, actuated  by  sentiments  of  delicacy  which 
lofty  spirits  can  easily  comprehend  and  which 
commonplace  natures  never  can,  had  written  to 
him  to  explain  and  excuse  her  own  fortune. 
This  letter,  which  he  should  have  carried  rev- 
erently to  his  lips  if  he  was  not  dead  to  every 
sentiment  of  virtue,  had  remained  unanswered. 
But  in  spite  of  so  many  reasons,  both  in  his 
own  acts  and  his  reputation,  for  discarding  him 


8o  MADELEINE  : 


from  her  heart,  he  remained  in  her  dreams  as 
she  found  him  that  Autumn  evening  when  for 
the  first  time  he  opened  to  her  this  hospitable 
door.  True,  she  was  then  merely  a  child  ;  but 
at  this  age,  when  boys  think  only  of  their 
amusements,  it  is  impossible  to  know  what 
germ  has  already  taken  root  in  the  heart  of  a 
girl  of  fifteen  years.  In  this,  girls  have  no 
childhood ;  and  no  matter  how  young  may  be 
the  wife,  there  is  seldom  a  husband  who  dares 
flatter  himself  that  he  has  gathered  the  first 
perfume  of  her  soul. 

God,  who  sees  the  diamond  formed  in  the 
bowels  of  the  earth  and  the  budding  pearl  in 
the  depths  of  the  ocean,  alone  knew  what  had 
passed  in  the  heart  of  this  child  since  their 
first  meeting.  Madeleine  had  long  refused  to 
believe  that  Maurice  had  fallen  as  low  as  people 
assured  her.  For  a  long  time  she  had  defended 
him  against  all ;  even  against  his  father,  so  in- 
dulgent; against  the  Marquise,  so  good.  At 
last,  after  having  seen  the  days  of  the  Chevalier 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  8 1 

shortened  and  the  home  of  his  ancestors  ex- 
posed to  public  sale,  she  could  no  longer  resist 
the  evidences  of  his  wrong-doing.  But  none 
the  less  had  this  young  man  remained  the 
secret  thought,  the  hidden  romance  of  her  life. 
These  sentiments  had  redoubled  in  intensity 
since  Madeleine  had  returned  to  Valtravers, 
and  found  at  every  step  some  lively  trace  of 
this  youth  whom  she  had  known  so  impetuous 
but  so  charming  in  his  enthusiasm.  In  his 
apartment  nothing  was  changed.  She  passed 
there  long,  long  hours,  sometimes  sad  and 
sometimes  enchanted.  In  the  park,  she  sat 
under  the  trees  that  he  had  planted.  In  cross- 
ing the  court,  his  dogs  would  run  to  meet  her. 
By  the  borders  of  the  Vienne,  she  saw  the  horses 
that  he  had  ridden,  now  at  liberty  in  the  grass. 
The  forest  was  filled  with  his  image.  He  had 
carved  the  oak  that  ornamented  the  dining- 
room.  This  was  not  all. 

There  was  at  Valtravers  a  good  and  honest 
girl,  who  had  never  been  away  from  the  house, 


82  MADELEINE: 


and  who  was  born  the  same  day  with  Maurice. 
They  were  nurslings  of  the  same  mother,  which 
in  the  Province  establishes  always  between 
children  a  close  fraternity.  The  Chevalier 
gave  to  this  foster-sister  of  his  son  a  moderate 
education.  She  had  the  rare  spirit  to  profit 
but  little  by  it,  and  to  remain  simply  what 
Nature  had  made  her;  neat,  active,  alert, 
attentive,  speaking  frankly  on  all  occasions, 
and  rejoicing  the  sight  by  her  splendid  health. 
She  had  few  faults,  except  the  boisterousness 
proceeding  from  an  excess  of  animal  spirits. 
She  simply  adored  her  foster-brother.  She 
found  it  only  natural  that  he  had  spent  all 
his  means;  and  she  was  only  surprised  at  the 
surprise  of  others.  If,  in  the  place  of  selling 
it,  he  had  set  fire  to  the  chateau  of  his  father, 
Ursula  would  have  declared  without  hesitation 
that  it  was  admirably  done.  If  he  had  roasted 
his  farmers  for  his  own  amusement,  she  would 
have  judged  the  case  at  most  a  little  singular. 
From  the  first,  she  had  conceived  for  Made- 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  83 

leine  an  affection  almost  as  strong.  On  hearing 
that  the  little  German  orphan,  a  cousin  of 
Maurice,  had  arrived  at  the  chateau,  she  had 
run  to  meet  her,  thrown  her  arms  around  her, 
and  almost  drowned  her  in  her  tears  of 
welcome.  She  was  intolerant  of  the  servants 
or  peasants  who  dared  in  her  presence  to 
doubt  the  virtues  of  the  young  Chevalier.  A 
blow  here  and  a  kick  there  cost  her  nothing. 
She  had  a  heavy  fist,  and  the  most  courageous 
among  them  dared  not  cross  her.  Madeleine 
would  talk  with  her  for  hours.  What  charm 
could  there  be  in  this  ?  We  scarcely  need 
to  say.  Ursula  talked  always  of  her  young 
master.  Seated  in  the  embrasure  of  a  window, 
one  at  her  embroidery,  the  other  mending,  the 
only  topic  was  Maurice.  Ursula  would  tell 
the  stories  of  their  youth,  always  the  same; 
but  what  the  one  was  never  tired  of  hearing, 
the  other  was  never  tired  of  repeating.  In 
following  these  reminiscences,  they  always 
arrived  insensibly  at  the  present  hour,  when 


84  MADELEINE: 


Ursula,  having  depicted  her  foster-brother  as  a 
lamb  without  stain,  would  prophesy  his  speedy 
return.  The  small  farm  of  Coudray  had  not 
been  sold;  consequently  they  believed  Maurice 
had  not  said  a  final  adieu  to  his  country. 

This  last  hope  was  soon  broken.  They 
heard  one  day  that  Coudray  was  for  sale;  and 
as  a  misfortune  never  comes  alone,  the  same 
day  a  morG  unexpected  event  brought  trouble 
and  confusion  to  the  chateau.  Madeleine's 
notary  came  to  tell  her  that  a  nephew  of 
Madame  de  Fresnes,  whom  they  had  thought 
dead  for  many  years,  had  returned  from 
America;  that  he  was  resolved  to  dispute  the 
will  of  his  aunt,  and  that  hostilities  were 
about  to  commence. 

A  few  evenings  after,  Madeleine  was  walking 
in  the  avenue  to  the  park,  alone  and  sad, 
thinking  of  her  new  troubles  and  complications. 
It  was  impossible  to  foresee  the  issue  of  the 
lawsuit;  and  although  she  naturally  shrank 
from  the  publicity  and  annoyance  of  this  affair, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  85 

it  was  not  care  for  her  fortune  which  troubled 
her.  Her  first  impulse  had  been  to  give  up 
her  inheritance  without  dispute ;  and  when,  on 
reflection,  she  concluded  to  defend  her  rights, 
it  was  through  respect  for  the  memory  of  her 
benefactors.  Then,  let  what  would  happen,  as 
she  had  followed  the  path  of  duty,  the  end 
should  not  disquiet  her.  Besides,  what  was 
this  house  to  her  if  Maurice  did  not  return? 
She  had  always  considered  it  his  property,  and 
it  had  been  the  dream  of  her  life  that  one 
day  the  prodigal  should  be  reinstated  by  her 
in  the  domain  of  his  fathers. 

At  the  turn  of  the  walk,  Madeleine  saw  him 
before  her — Maurice  —  but  so  pale  and  so 
changed  that  one  would  have  thought  it  was 
his  spectre.  Alas!  he  was  in  truth  only  the 
spectre  of  himself.  Surprised  and  delighted, 
Madeleine  started  to  throw  herself  into  his 
arms;  but  her  emotion  was  chilled  by  the  frozen 
attitude  of  this  still  figure.  Simply  remarking 
that  the  evening  was  chilly,  he  offered  his  cousin 


86  MADELEINE  : 


his  arm  to  conduct  her  to  the  chateau ;  and 
although  Madeleine  trembled,  he  walked  with  a 
firm  step.  He  mounted  without  hesitation  the 
steps  to  the  doorway ;  but  when  he  entered  the 
drawing-room  and  Madeleine  said  to  him,  "  It 
is  here  that  your  father  died,"  his  strength 
appeared  to  falter,  and  he  hid  his  face  between 

his  hands "  Ah  !  it  is  thou  ?  "  he 

said  to  Ursula,  who  almost  stifled  him  with  her 
embraces ;  then,  after  some  commonplace  com- 
pliments to  his  cousin,  he  told  them  that,  about 
to  leave  France  for  a  long  voyage,  he  wished  to 
see  for  a  last  time  the  house  of  his  fathers,  and 
say  adieu  to  those  whom  he  had  loved.  At  the 
end  of  an  hour,  he  retired  to  his  chamber; 
Madeleine  having  insisted  that  he  should  seek 
no  other  shelter.  When  he  had  gone,  she  burst 
into  tears,  and  sobbed  aloud.  As  for  Ursula, 
she  seemed  changed  to  stone. 

In  coming  to  Valtravers,  Maurice  had 
intended  passing  only  a  few  hours  there, 
before  returning  to  Paris  to  arrange  the  pre- 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  87 

parations  for  his  journey.  At  the  entreaty  of 
his  cousin,  he  consented  to  remain  some  days. 
During  this  period,  Madeleine  could  observe 
the  ravages  that  dissipation  had  made,  not  less 
in  his  appearance  than  upon  his  heart  and 
mind.  He  was  sombre,  stern,  critical ;  rarely 
affectionate  or  kind.  He  seemed,  however,  to 
take  some  interest  in  the  affairs  of  his  cousin. 
One  evening,  as  if  to  ease  his  conscience,  he 
carefully  examined  the  papers  in  her  lawsuit, 
and  declared  that  in  his  opinion  it  was  a  matter 
that  was  decided  in  advance. 

"  That  concerns  you,  my  cousin,"  said  the 
young  girl,  smiling. 

"  Me  ?  " 

"You  know  that  since  the  death  of  your 
father  the  place  has  not  changed  masters." 

"  Oh,  my  cousin,"  replied  Maurice,  in  an 
indifferent  tone,  "your  generosity  is  lost.  I 
could  have  all  the  chateaus  in  France  without 
being  any  happier." 

"Are    you   then    so    unhappy?      asked    the 


MADELEINE : 


young  girl,  in  a  voice  so   soft  and  sweet  that  it 
might  have  melted  a  heart  of  stone. 

"  I,  my  cousin?  I  am  the  happiest  of  men." 
The  following  day,  Madeleine  learned  that 
Maurice  had  gone  away  without  saying  farewell. 
He  wrote  from  Paris  to  excuse  this  abrupt 
departure.  Two  months  after,  he  wrote  again. 
His  preparations,  he  said,  were  complete.  In 
fifteen  days  he  should  be  gone.  Beneath  their 
tone  of  raillery,  these  two  letters  showed  the 
unhappy  condition  of  his  mind.  The  last 
especially  seemed  to  breathe  a  spirit  of  dis- 
couragement, and  was  full  of  sombre  thoughts. 
At  the  first  reading,  Madeleine  felt  sad ;  at  the 
second,  she  was  stricken  with  affright. 

During  this  time,  the  lawsuit  went  on.  All 
the  pious  pilgrims  whom  Madeleine  had 
repulsed,  rejoiced  over  the  bad  turn  in  the 
affairs  of  the  little  German.  Madeleine  alone 
was  undisturbed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

AS  he  had  announced  to  Madeleine,  Maurice 
*^  was  indeed  about  to  take  a  long  journey 
—  a  journey  from  which  no  one  returns,  and 
before  which  the  most  intrepid  heart  recoils. 
His  preparations  were  completed,  and  it  only 
remained  for  him  to  say  an  eternal  adieu  to 
this  world,  which  he  was  to  quit  for  a  better — 
at  least,  that  is  what  we  are  assured;  and  it 
is  a  trust  to  which  we  are  permitted  to  cling, 
without  presuming  too  much  on  the  goodness 
of  God.  Maurice  had  reached  this  point  in 
his  career  by  an  insensible  but  sure  descent. 
It  is  a  history  so  common,  and  so  often  told 
by  more  eloquent  pens  than  mine,  that  there 
is  need  to  sketch  here  only  its  leading  phases. 


go  MADELEINE  : 


See  this  young  man,  of  twenty  years  at  most! 
He  enters  life,  which  till  now  he  has  seen  only 
in  the  enchanted  dreams  of  the  solitude  in 
which  he  has  grown.  His  childhood  has  run 
itself  away  in  the  shade  of  the  paternal  roof 
and  in  the  depths  of  valleys.  Nature  has 
cradled  him  upon  her  bosom.  God  has  placed 
around  him  noble  and  pious  examples.  See 
him  as  he  advances,  escorted  by  the  laughing 
cortege  which  Youth  draws  around  her.  Grace 
sits  upon  his  forehead.  Illusion  dwells  in  his 
breast.  Like  a  flower  that  uncloses  beneath 
crystal  waters,  the  beauty  of  his  soul  shines 
from  the  depths  of  his  eyes.  He  believes 
without  effort  in  chaste  passions,  in  the  ten- 
derness that  reaches  beyond  the  tomb,  in  the 
vows  that  are  exchanged  in  the  purity  of 
serene  nights.  He  has  only  one  ambition : 
love.  —  Ah,  well !  whilst  we  ask  ourselves  in 
what  balmy  airs  so  precious  a  blossom  will 
unfold,  whilst  you  search  for  the  Beatrice  whose 
hand  is  pure  enough  to  gather  this  virginal 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  91 

flower,  it  is  already  the  prize  of  some  vicious 
and  corrupt  nature.  Beatrice  never  arrives  in 
time ;  and  when  at  last  the  angel  presents  her- 
self, there  is  nothing  left  for  her  to  glean  but 
the  harvest  sown  by  demons. 

Such  was  Maurice's  first  experience  in  the 
world.  Some  women  —  they  are  rare  —  have 
received  from  Heaven  the  gift  of  ennobling  all 
who  approach  them.  Even  the  grief  which  they 
bring  us  is  blessed.  Others — more  numerous 
— have  the  deadly  quality  of  those  waters  which 
petrify  all  objects  dropped  in  their  depths. 
Unhappy  —  oh,  thrice  unhappy — the  credulous 
and  confident  youth  who  is  taken  in  these  fatal 
charms.  Maurice  left  there  the  best  portion 
of  himself;  and  like  most  feeble  yet  ardent 
natures  who  have  touched  all  extremes  of  life, 
he  lost  his  faith  in  humanity.  There  are  noble 
souls  that  are  strengthened  and  purified  in  the 
blood  of  their  wounds.  There  are  others  that 
are  embittered  and  corrupted.  Maurice  rushed 
headlong  into  the  cynical  philosophy  which 


MADELEINE  : 


ridicules  all  exalted  sentiments,  and  affects  to 
consider  as  chimeras  all  that  does  not  enter 
into  the  circle  of  material  enjoyment :  a  phi- 
losophy of  the  ante-chamber,  in  older  times 
reserved  for  the  valets  in  comedies,  for  the  use 
of  "  Frontin  "  and  "  Gros-Rene,"  and  which  cer- 
tain vain  spirits  of  our  day  have  had  the  pre- 
sumption to  make  the  doctrine  of  reason,  the 
theory  of  good  sense  and  elegance.  These 
abortive  souls  have  no  other  occupation  than 
to  strike  at  all  that  would  uplift  humanity ; 
deeming  enthusiasm,  poetry,  heroism,  love, 
country,  and  liberty,  mere  senseless  words  that 
serve  only  to  amuse  mediocrity.  Maurice  be- 
came one  of  the  most  fervent  disciples  of  this 
mocking  skepticism.  Once  upon  this  incline, 
he  went  fast.  At  first  he  persuaded  himself 
that  it  was  but  a  play;  and,  in  effect,  it  was 
for  a  long  time  only  a  play.  Say  what  he  may, 
the  cynic  believes  that  he  has  still  virtually 
within  himself  the  very  sentiments  of  which 
he  professes  to  be  divested.  He  fancies  that 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


93 


whenever  the  occasion  comes,  he  will  find  them 
again ;  that  at  the  first  serious  call,  not  one 
will  fail  to  answer.  He  rests  in  this  belief, 
not  perceiving  that  this  boasting  of  vices,  this 
parade  of  unbelief,  degrades  and  ruins  the 
moral  sense.  He  discovers  some  fine  morning 
that,  thanks  to  his  own  raillery  and  ridicule, 
these  sentiments  upon  which  he  had  counted 
as  a  reserve  corps  have  folded  their  tents  and 
silently  departed.  Thus,  commencing  by  being 
unwilling  to  avow  openly  that  which  at  heart 
he  believes,  he  finishes  by  becoming  in  reality 
that  which  he  had  sought  only  to  appear. 

Maurice  still  turned  his  thoughts  at  times 
toward  Valtravers;  but  too  many  ties  held 
him  on  every  side.  The  letters  of  his  father 
irritated  him,  although  maternal  in  their  ten- 
derness. The  remonstrances  of  the  Marquise 
made  him  smile  in  pity,  or  rage  like  a  wounded 
lion.  It  was  then  the  fashion  of  youth  to  hold 
in  little  honor  that  which  in  older  times  they 
had  the  weakness  to  venerate  in  Lacedemonia. 


94 


MADELEINE  : 


The  Restoration  was  finished,  and  the  times 
bordered  upon  that  social  crisis  which  seemed 
about  to  change  the  face  of  the  world :  and  I 
know  no  epoch  that  has  carried  so  far  con- 
tempt for  all  rule  and  absence  of  all  respect. 
Maurice  was  imbued  with  that  spirit  of  revolt 
which  filled  the  air,  and  toward  which  his 
natural  impetuosity  of  character  impelled  him. 
Alas,  that  he  was  so  far  away  from  that  kind 
being,  endowed  with  so  many  graces,  affection- 
ate, charming,  good  to  all ;  one  of  those  poetic 
and  fragile  organizations  that  are  like  glass, 
smooth  to  the  touch  when  whole,  but  cutting 
when  it  is  broken. 

However,  Maurice  did  nothing  but  walk 
the  streets  of  Paris,  eating  his  wheat  in  the 
flower,  and  cultivating  his  intelligence  just 
enough  to  avoid  the  air  of  having  arrived  the 
evening  before  from  Congo.  Unlike  those 
grand  souls  who,  when  they  are  deeply  wounded, 
bury  themselves  in  solitude,  to  be  cured  in 
silence  or  to  die,  he  launched  himself  into 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


95 


the  whirlpool  of  vulgar  dissipations.  Idleness, 
and  the  weariness  which  succeeds  the  storms 
of  passion,  plunged  him  every  day  deeper. 
Strange  remedies  for  the  wounds  of  a  soul ;  to 
wash  them  in  the  waters  of  a  gutter!  He  is 
to  be  pitied,  the  young  man  who  knows  not 
how  to  respect  his  own  grief.  Handsome, 
generous,  prodigal,  Maurice  was  not  slow  to 
make  a  name  in  the  dubious  world  where  the 
manners  of  the  Regency,  without  its  elegance 
and  charm,  have  found  refuge.  The  talk  there 
was  of  duels,  of  horses,  of  debts,  and  of 
intrigues.  Descending  step  by  step,  he  found 
himself  one  day  face  -  to  -  face  with  debauch. 
He  regarded  the  monster  without  fright,  and 
threw  to  him  the  remainder  of  his  youth. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  wild  disorders 
that  the  last  letter  of  his  father  found  him. 
This  letter  was  beautiful  and  touching,  without 
anger  or  denunciation.  In  reading  it,  Maurice 
felt  the  prick  of  remorse,  which  re-awakened  all 
his  nobler  instincts.  At  this  voice,  august  and 


96  MADELEINE: 


dear,  his  sobs  burst  forth,  tears  came  to  his 
eyes,  and  a  cry  of  love  rose  from  that  heart  that 
had  been  silent  so  long.  He  would  go.  He 
would  tear  himself  away  from  these  accursed 
ties.  Then  he  learned  that  his  father  was  dead. 
— Young  and  full  of  days,  we  too  often  forget 
at  a  distance  that  the  years  of  our  father  are 
numbered.  We  put  off  from  month  to  month 
the  debt  of  tenderness  ;  and  it  is  usually  upon 
a  tomb  that  we  tearfully  place  our  offering  of 
tardy  piety. 

Maurice  was  stricken  to  the  earth.  Under 
pretext  of  consoling  him,  his  friends — or,  more 
accurately,  his  accomplices  —  gathered  around 
his  bedside.  Thus  the  stroke  which  seemed 
about  to  break  these  unhappy  ties  only  fastened 
them  more  securely.  Besides,  what  could  he 
do  at  Valtravers  ?  After  useless  efforts  to  guide 
himself,  he  found  it  easier  to  float  with  the  cur- 
rent. This  current,  so  easy  to  descend,  is  diffi- 
cult to  fight  against.  It  leads  to  the  gulf  of 
strange  fascinations,  unknown  to  those  who  have 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


97 


navigated  only  peaceful  waters.  Meanwhile, 
troublesome  realities  began  to  torment  him. 
Embarrassments  multiplied  about  him ;  for  the 
disorder  of  sentiment  leads  straight  to  all  other 
disorders.  To  appease  the  hydra  of  debt,  and 
fill  the  abyss  that  yawned  at  his  feet,  Maurice 
was  forced  to  resign  himself  to  the  sale  of  the 
chateau  where  he  was  born  and  the  domain  of 
his  fathers.  In  brief,  he  insensibly  joined  the 
group  of  veteran  route  that  are  seen  at  Paris, 
without  patrimony,  without  career,  and  without 
position ;  yet  overshadowing  with  their  inex- 
plicable fortunes  those  honest  people  whom  they 
despise,  and  who,  God  knows,  return  their  con- 
tempt. 

Do  what  we  can  to  escape  it,  there  comes 
inevitably  an  hour  when  that  unpitying  creditor, 
Destiny,  knocks  at  our  door.  Whether  we  will 
or  no,  she  regulates  her  accounts  with  us.  It 
is  said  that  man  is  the  play  of  hazard.  But  for 
my  part,  I  do  not  know  a  logic  more  close  or 
more  inflexible  than  that  of  each  human  life. 


98  MADELEINE  : 


All  there  ties  and  enchains  itself;  and  for  him 
who  knows  how  to  lay  bare  the  premises  and 
wait  patiently  the  conclusion,  it  is  certainly  the 
most  rigorous  of  syllogisms.  Thus,  what  should 
have  happened  to  Maurice  did  happen.  The 
fatal  hour  surprised  him,  overwhelmed  in  a 
past  without  other  issue  than  suicide  or  dis- 
honor. His  was  a  soul  perverted  but  not 
perverse.  At  the  height  of  his  excesses,  it 
was  easy  to  see  in  him  the  stamp  of  his  origin, 
and,  although  singularly  altered,  the  impress  of 
a  grand  nature.  In  a  world  where  ignorance 
struts  in  the  midst  of  luxurious  furniture,  in 
the  crowd  of  parvenues,  where,  as  in  the  "  Pr6- 
cieuses  Ridicules,"  one  sees  grooms  give  them- 
selves the  airs  of  Dukes,  this  young  man  at 
least  had  brought  elegant  and  chivalrous  man- 
ners, an  adventurous  and  proud  spirit.  Between 
the  two  issues  that  presented  themselves,  he 
did  not  hesitate.  Besides,  his  moral  suicide 
was  already  accomplished.  Nothing  remained 
for  him  but  to  bury  himself.  The  heavy  weari- 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


99 


ness  that  consumed  him,  the  disgust  that  he 
felt  for  himself,  perhaps  more  than  all  else, 
forced  him  sooner  or  later  to  this  common 
denotement,  easy  to  foresee  in  an  epoch  when 
it  was  not  rare  to  meet  youths  of  twenty  years 
who  despaired  of  life. 

His  resolution  once  taken,  too  proud  in  his 
abasement  to  quit  existence  like  an  insolvent 
debtor  who  flies  before  the  constable,  he  sold 
the  farm  of  Coudray,  which  he  had  hitherto 
refrained  from  touching  for  the  sake  of  Made- 
leine; for  though  he  had  kept  in  his  thoughts 
only  a  half-effaced  image  of  his  cousin,  he  had 
still  foreseen  that  she  might  one  day  fall  into 
poverty.  Reassured  in  this  regard,  since  he 
knew  that  Madeleine  had  inherited  the  domain 
of  Valtravers,  he  could  discharge  his  debts  with 
this  last  remaining  vestige  of  his  patrimony. 
Led  by  that  vague  impulse  of  emotion  which 
never  dies  in  us,  he  had  wished  to  see  once 
more  before  his  death  that  corner  of  the  earth 
where  he  was  born. 


loo  MADELEINE: 


The  return  to  his  native  place,  upon  which 
he  had  perhaps  counted  to  revive  his  youth, 
served  only  to  show  in  all  its  sterile  naked- 
ness the  impoverishment  of  his  being.  He 
could  scarcely  recognize  the  familiar  paths 
where  so  many  times  he  had  walked  between 
the  Marquise  and  the  Chevalier.  He  saw 
again,  but  without  emotion,  the  places  that  he 
had  loved  so  well.  When  he  seated  himself 
on  the  steps  of  the  house  where  his  father 
had  died,  not  a  tear  moistened  his  eyes.  Just 
punishment  of  fallen  souls,  who,  having  out- 
raged all  that  is  holy,  come  to  quench  their 
thirst  at  the  spring  of  pure  emotions! 

If  this  young  man  believed  that  he  could 
regenerate  himself  by  contact  with  this  pure 
girl  that  we  call  Madeleine,  he  deceived  him- 
self strangely,  and  prepared  for  himself  a  bitter 
disappointment.  A  Levite,  gross  from  the  wor- 
ship of  sensual  beauty,  how  could  he  compre- 
hend this  pure  soul  ?  In  seeing  her,  he  was 
not  only  untouched  by  so  much  grace,  but  after 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE,  IOi 

studying  her  curiously,  as  he  would  a  statue  or 
a  picture,  he  thought  his  cousin  failed  decidedly 
in  character.  All  that  he  felt  toward  her  re- 
duced itself  to  that  vague  sentiment  of  con- 
straint and  uneasiness  felt  by  all  routs  when 
they  chance  to  meet  with  a  chaste  woman. 
Dreading  the  scene  of  adieu,  he  left  one  morn- 
ing, as  he  had  come,  without  a  word  to  anyone. 
Returning  to  Paris,  he  hastened  to  put  his 
affairs  in  order.  Before  his  visit  to  Valtravers, 
he  had  dismissed  his  servants  and  sold  his 
equipages.  The  sale  of  Coudray  had  paid  his 
last  debts.  He  found  himself  now  with  three 
thousand  francs.  It  was  enough  to  take  him 
to  the  end  of  his  journey.  Freed  from  care, 
he  decided  to  pass  in  quietude  the  few  days 
that  remained  to  him  on  earth.  If  he  had 
lived  badly,  he  wished  to  die  decently  —  that 
is,  with  dignity;  for  he  believed  in  nothing, 
and  the  unhappy  man  troubled  himself  no 
more  with  God  than  with  men.  The  image 
of  Madeleine  did  not  light  with  even  a  pale 


102  MADELEINE: 


reflection  the  evening  on  which  he  was  to  take 
leave  of  life.  He  did  not  once  think  of  that 
sweet  face.  In  his  cowardly  egotism,  he  did 
not  call  to  mind  the  lawsuit  which  might 
seriously  imperil  the  destiny  of  his  cousin. 

The  hour  approached.  If  he  waited,  it  was 
not  from  irresolution ;  only,  after  the  fatigues 
and  vain  agitations  of  life,  he  wished  to  taste 
for  a  little  time  the  calm  and  the  silence  that 
precede  death.  He  had  written  a  letter  of 
adieu  to  Madeleine.  His  pistols  were  loaded. 
More  than  once  he  had  pressed  to  his  fore- 
head their  bronze  lips,  as  if  to  anticipate  the 
icy  kiss  of  death.  He  touched  that  supreme 
moment  which  was  to  annihilate  the  past, 
and  leave  only  a  corpse  to  the  comments  of 
curiosity. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GOING  out  of  Paris  that  morning,  he  had 
returned  in  the  evening,  after  wandering 
all  day  in  the  woods  of  Lucienne  and  Celle. 
Never  had  life  weighed  upon  him  so  heavily. 
Never  had  he  felt  so  profoundly  the  nothing- 
ness of  his  soul,  the  exhaustion  of  his  faculties. 
Upon  his  return,  he  opened  a  little  casket,  in 
which,  heaped  in  confusion,  with  no  more  care 
or  order  than  he  showed  in  his  daily  life,  were 
the  letters  he  had  received  in  better  times,  with 
withered  flowers,  faded  ribbons,  and  tresses  of 
hair ;  in  short,  all  the  romance  and  poetry  of  his 
youth.  When  he  raised  the  lid  of  the  casket, 
although  for  years  a  stranger  to  emotion,  he 
trembled  at  the  perfume  which  escaped  from 


104  MADELEINE ; 


the  box,  like  a  breath  of  Springtime,  to  remind 
him  of  happier  days.  Among  the  letters  that 
he  read  over  before  burning  them,  accident 
had  placed  the  very  one  which  his  cousin  had 
lately  written,  unknown  to  the  Chevalier  and 
the  Marquise,  and  which  he  had  left  unan- 
swered. For  the  first  time,  he  read  it  care- 
fully; smiling  here  and  there  at  the  naive 
charm  that  it  revealed.  When  the  fire  had 
consumed  the  letters,  Maurice  took  from  the 
casket  a  medallion,  which  he  contemplated  for 
a  long  time  with  a  gloomy  air.  In  touching 
it,  he  had  started  as  at  the  contact  of  a  viper. 
It  was  the  portrait  of  the  first  and  only  woman 
he  had  ever  loved.  The  face  was  beautiful, 
but  it  was  a  beauty  fatal  and  sensuous.  Atten- 
tively examined,  it  seemed  a  mysterious  Sphinx, 
offering  to  all  comers  her  heart  as  a  riddle,  and 
ready  to  destroy  the  madmen  who  presented 
themselves  to  guess  it.  After  many  minutes 
of  moody  contemplation,  with  a  sudden  motion 
of  hate  and  anger  Maurice  hurled  from  him 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  105 

the  slender  and  fragile  ivory,  which  broke  in 
pieces  at  his  feet.  Worn  out  by  this  last  effort, 
he  sank  upon  a  divan,  his  face  hidden  in  his 
hands. 

He  remained  thus  for  nearly  an  hour ;  then, 
raising  his  head,  he  saw  Madeleine  standing 
near  him,  and  looking  upon  him  with  a  sad, 
sweet  smile.  He  thought  for  an  instant  that 
it  was  an  hallucination  of  his  excited  senses; 
for  a  moment  he  believed  her  the  angel  of 
death  whom  he  was  about  to  summon.  But 
he  did  not  dwell  long  on  so  poetic  an  image. 

"You,  Madeleine?  It  is  you?  What  do  you 
wish?  What  do  you  ask?  What  fantasy  or 
what  need  has  brought  you?  Certainly  your 
place  is  not  here." 

"  Yes,  my  cousin,  it  is  I,"  said  the  young 
girl,  who  seemed  neither  troubled  nor  surprised 
at  his  words,  spoken  in  an  abrupt  and  almost 
brutal  tone.  "It  is  I  —  or,  rather,  we,"  she 
added ;  "  for  your  foster-sister  is  in  the  ante- 
chamber. She  would  come  with  me;  and  per- 


io6  MADELEINE: 


haps  you  will  not  be  displeased  to  see  her 
good  and  honest  face." 

"What  has  possessed  you  to  quit  your 
home  ?  Why  have  you  come  to  this  infamous 
city?  You  do  not  know  that  even  the  air  you 
breathe  is  tainted,  here  where  virtue  dies  of 
disgust,  of  sadness,  and  of  weariness.  You  and 
Ursula  at  Paris  ?  Return  to  Valtravers,  and 
remain  in  the  peaceful  shade  of  its  woods." 

"  My  cousin,  that  is  very  easy  for  you  to 
say,"  replied  Madeleine,  softly.  "But  you  do 
not  know  that  this  lawsuit,  that  I  should  have 
gained,  I  lost  in  the  last  court.  Valtravers  is 
no  longer  mine.  I  am  absolutely  at  the  same 
point  as  when  you  found  me  in  the  shade  of 
those  woods  to  which  you  counsel  me  to 
return." 

"  You  have  lost  your  lawsuit  ?  Valtravers 
does  not  belong  to  you?"  cried  Maurice. 

"  Yes,  my  cousin.  Heaven  is  my  witness 
that  I  do  not  regret  the  loss  of  riches.  The 
only  painful  thought  is  that  they  have  not 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


107 


respected  the  last  will  of  our  beloved  Mar- 
quise. And  one  other  hope  that  I  cherished 
was  that  this  chateau  which  had  fallen  to  me 
would  sometime  go  to  you  or  your  children." 

"My  children  will  have  need  of  nothing; 
and  there  is  no  question  of  me  in  the  matter," 
replied  Maurice,  in  a  tone  becoming  more  and 
more  abrupt.  "  Why  did  you  not  accept  the 
farm  of  Coudray  when  I  offered  it  to  you? 
Why  did  you  let  me  sell  it  ?  Why  did  you  not 
say  that  the  day  might  come  when  you  would 
find  yourself  without  resources  ?  The  day  has 
come,  and  what  is  to  become  of  you  ? " 

"  Do  not  chide  me,  my  cousin.  You  see  I 
have  not  doubted  your  heart,  since  I  am  here 
to  address  myself  to  you.  I  have  never  hesi- 
tated an  instant.  I  said  to  myself,  '  My  cousin 
is  henceforth  the  only  protector  that  is  left  to 
me  in  this  world ;  he  knows  that  I  have  ten- 
derly loved  his  old  father,  and  that  I  am 
worthy  of  his  affection ;  I  know  him ;  he  is 
generous;  I  will  place  myself  under  his  care; 


io8  MADELEINE  : 


I  am  sure  he  will  not  repulse  me.'  And  so  I 
made  up  my  little  package,  as  in  the  old  time 
when  I  left  Munich  ;  and  after  a  last  prayer 
beneath  the  roof  that  had  been  so  hospitable, 
after  a  sad  adieu  to  the  house  wherein  I  had 
grown  to  womanhood,  and  to  all  those  dear 
places  that  I  shall  see  no  more,  I  came  to 
you.  Maurice,  do  you  think  that  I  could  have 
done  otherwise?" 

Maurice  did  not  reply.  Seated  upon  a  divan 
beside  Madeleine,  he  regarded  her  with  an  air 
of  heavy  stupor,  like  a  man  who  is  uncertain 
whether  he  wakes  or  dreams.  It  did  not  need 
much  insight  to  divine  what  was  passing  in  his 
mind.  Madeleine  seemed  not  to  perceive  it. 
She  added,  with  a  smiling  dignity : 

"  Above  all,  my  cousin,  do  not  fear  that  I 
will  become  a  serious  embarrassment  in  your 
life.  My  tastes  are  modest  and  simple.  My 
poverty  will  not  long  burden  you.  I  beg  you 
only  to  renounce  for  a  little  while  the  long  voy- 
age you  have  meditated.  You  could  not  leave 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


109 


me  alone  and  without  protection,  in  the  great 
city  that  you  call  infamous.  You  will  not  go. 
It  is  your  noble  father,  it  is  the  good  Marquise, 
that  pray  to  you  by  my  voice.  It  is  also  my 
mother,  who,  before  dying,  confided  me  to  the 
son  of  her  sister.  Recall  the  letter,  the  only 
inheritance  she  left  me  in  dying.  If  you  have 
forgotten  —  here,  Maurice,  take  it  and  read  it." 

The  truth  is  that  Maurice  had  never  read 
that  letter.  As  it  was  the  only  legacy  of  her 
mother,  the  day  after  her  arrival  at  Valtravers 
the  orphan  had  begged  her  uncle  to  give  it 
back  to  her;  and  the  good  Chevalier  had  im- 
mediately acceded  to  this  filial  wish.  It  was 
not  surprising  that  the  thoughtless  young  man 
had  never  troubled  himself  to  verify  the  titles 
which  established  Madeleine's  identity,  nor  to 
know  how  his  German  aunt  wrote  French. 
Naturally,  these  were  the  least  of  his  cares. 
His  father  had  said,  "  See  thy  cousin ; "  and 
Maurice  had  accepted  the  relationship. 

More  through  embarrassment  than  curiosity, 


MADELEINE  : 


he  mechanically  took  the  paper  from  the  hand 
of  the  young  girl,  and,  unfolding  it,  read  at 
first  with  indifference.  No  matter  what  the 
reader  thinks,  no  matter  what  he  thought  him- 
self; his  was  not  a  heart  entirely  hardened. 
Under  its  calloused  surface  there  were  some 
fibers  unparalyzed,  which  yet  vibrated  to  the 
touch  of  a  strong  emotion.  He  had  preserved 
— not,  it  is  true,  in  all  its  freshness  or  integrity — 
the  most  precious  and  the  most  fatal  of  the 
faculties  that  man  has  received  from  Divine 
anger  and  mercy ;  that  which  awakens  first 
within  us,  and  that  which  dies  after  all  others ; 
at  the  same  time  both  a  blessing  and  a  curse, 
poison  and  antidote,  infernal  punishment  and 
celestial  enchantment;  the  superhuman  force 
which  adds  to  our  joys  and  intensifies  our 
griefs;  in  a  word,  Imagination.  In  reading 
this  letter,  whose  characters,  worn  by  tears 
and  kisses,  had  passed  first  before  the  eyes  of 
his  father,  Maurice  recalled  little  by  little  all 
the  circumstances  of  that  Autumn  evening 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  ZI1 

when  Madeleine  first  appeared  to  him.  He 
saw  again  the  shady  forest ;  the  clearing,  bathed 
in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun ;  the  gate  of  the 
park;  and  upon  the  doorstep  which  the  little 
German  slowly  mounted,  he  saw  the  Chevalier 
and  the  Marquise  rise  to  give  her  welcome. 
He  was  moved  by  these  images.  A  slender 
thread  of  living  water  pierced  the  arid  side  of 
the  rock;  but  in  the  last  page,  which  was 
addressed  to  him  alone,  when  he  reached  the 
lines — "And  thou,  whom  I  do  not  know,  but 
whom  I  have  loved  to  include  so  often  with 
my  daughter  in  the  same  sentiment  of  tender- 
ness and  solicitude  —  son  of  my  sister — if  thy 
mother  has  given  thee  her  soul,  thou  wilt  be 
good  and  fraternal  to  my  beloved  Madeleine" — 
when  he  read  these  words,  the  rock  was  broken, 
and  for  an  instant  the  spring  so  long  captive 
burst  out  in  quick  and  abundant  waves.  Whilst 
Maurice  stifled  his  sobs  among  the  cushions  of 
the  divan  on  which  he  was  seated,  Madeleine 
regarded  him  in  silence,  standing  with  her  arms 


II2  MADELEINE: 


crossed  upon  her  breast,  with  the  sad  and  grave 
air  of  a  young  mother  by  the  cradle  of  a  sick 
child. 

"Maurice!  my  friend!  my  brother!  what  is 
the  matter?"  said  she,  in  a  tender  voice. 

He  seated  her  near  him,  took  her  hands  in 
his,  and  there,  yet  quivering  with  emotion,  he 
recounted  to  her  his  life;  —  all  that  he  could 
recount  without  shocking  the  pure  soul  that 
listened  to  his  words.  He  told  of  the  loss  of 
his  illusions ;  the  dissipations  into  which  weari- 
ness and  grief  had  plunged  him;  his  wander- 
ings ;  his  utter  ruin ;  his  profound  disgust  with 
existence;  his  final  resolve  to  end  it.  In  this 
recital,  Maurice  seemed  not  so  much  to  blame 
himself  as  to  imagine  that  he  was  the  poetic 
victim  of  the  realities  of  life.  He  accused  the 
world,  and  even  Heaven ;  and  in  the  destruc- 
tion which  he  called  down  upon  society,  he 
spared  only  himself. 

Madeleine  listened  with  an  air  of  dreamy 
sadness  and  melancholy  pity.  When  he  had 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  II3 

finished,  she  remained  silent  for  a  long  time,  in 
an  attitude  of  reflection. 

"  It  is  a  strange  history,"  said  she,  pleasantly, 
raising  her  eyes,  whose  limpid  azure  had  not 
been  altered  for  an  instant  by  what  she  had 
heard.  "  Unhappily,  my  cousin,  I  have  not 
thoroughly  understood  what  you  have  said.  It 
is  too  deep  for  the  intelligence  of  a  poor  country 
girl,  who  has  grown  up  among  honest  hearts 
that  were  content  with  little.  We  are  unfamiliar 
with  such  extraordinary  sentiments;  and,  not- 
withstanding its  vicissitudes,  I  had  believed 
until  now  that  life  was  the  best  gift  of  our 
Heavenly  Father.  That  which  I  have  under- 
stood clearly  is,  that  you  have  wasted  your 
patrimony;  and  that,  if  I  have  nothing,  you 
have  as  much.  But  that  is  not  a  matter  for 
despair.  Only,  in  my  turn,  I  ask  what  are  you 
going  to  do?  Kill  yourself?  You  cannot.  I 
am  not  come  to  address  myself  to  your  for- 
tune. I  have  counted  only  upon  your  affection. 
Although  poor,  like  me,  you  are  my  only  rela- 


MADELEINE  : 


tive  and  my  natural  protector.  Be  your  own 
judge.  Our  mothers  were  sisters.  Both  see 
us  and  listen  to  us.  When  I  arrived  at  your 
door  at  Valtravers,  your  father  opened  his  arms, 
and  I  became  his  cherished  daughter.  I  re- 
placed you  at  his  fireside.  I  was  the  last 
solace  of  his  old  age.  He  died  in  my  arms, 
and  my  hand  closed  his  eyes.  And  now,  alone, 
without  resources,  without  other  protection  than 
yours,  in  a  world  full  of  dangers  that  I  do  not 
even  know,  tell  me,  Maurice,  do  you  think  that 
your  life  belongs  only  to  yourself?" 

Crushed  by  the  weight  of  duties  which  came 
like  a  thunderbolt  upon  his  head,  as  frightened 
at  this  new  obligation  to  live  as  he  would  have 
been  in  happier  days  at  the  necessity  of  dying, 
linked  to  existence  like  a  galley-slave  whose 
chain  was  loosened  only  to  be  more  strongly 
riveted  than  before,  Maurice  replied  only 

an  outburst  of  despair.  What  could  he 
do  for  his  cousin?  —  he,  who  could  do  nothing 
for  himself.  What  possible  succor  could  he 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  n5 

lend  ? —  he  who  bent  under  the  burden  of  his 
own  destiny. 

"  Go  !  leave  me ! "  he  cried ;  "  respect  my  mis- 
fortune ;  do  not  insult  my  distress.  From  the 
shore  where  you  stand  in  safety,  do  not  call  to 
your  aid  an  unfortunate  who  is  drowning.  Do 
not  ask  support  of  a  reed  beaten  by  the 
winds." 

"Friend,"  said  Madeleine,  "let  us  lean  upon 
each  other,  and  we  can  resist  the  storm.  Let 
us  give  each  other  a  helping  hand,  and  we  can 
escape  together  the  waves  that  threaten  to 
engulf  us.  We  will,  by  a  common  effort,  reach 
that  shore  where  you  misjudge  that  I  stand. 
Come,  Maurice !  have  courage.  Instead  of 
weeping,  uplift  yourself.  Death  is  but  a  barren 
expiation.  Live!  be  a  man!  We  are  poor; 
but  is  it  for  nothing  that  we  have  received  from 
Heaven  the  gifts  of  intelligence,  strength,  and 
health  ?  We  will  do,  my  cousin,  as  in  the  olden 
times  did  the  Marquise  and  the  Chevalier." 
This  prospect  did  not  appear  to  charm 


1 1 6  MA  DELEINE  : 


Maurice,  who  made  a  violent  gesture  of  anger 
and  disdain. 

"  I  am  then  to  make  nut-crackers  ? "  he 
asked,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"And  why  not,  cousin?  Your  father  made 
them,  and  I  imagine  he  was  as  true  a  gentle- 
man as  you." 

Maurice  rose  and  rapidly  paced  the  room. 
He  then  stopped  suddenly  before  Madeleine. 

"  Come,  Maurice !  be  resolved." 

"Well,  cousin,  be  satisfied,"  he  said,  in  a 
tone  surely  not  affectionate,  scarcely  polite. 
"  I  will  do  for  you  what  I  certainly  should 
not  have  done  for  myself.  I  will  live." 

"Thanks,  dear  cousin,"  said  Madeleine,  in 
a  tender  voice.  "I  knew  that  you  would  not 
repulse  me.  I  will  pray  God  to  shed  upon 
your  head  his  benedictions." 

"Well,  well,  cousin.  God  has  enough  to  do 
without  disturbing  himself  for  so  little.  I  will 
live.  But  my  conditions  are,  that  once  assured  of 
your  destiny,  I  am  again  master  of  mine." 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


117 


"That  is  understood,"  said  the  young  girl. 
"  But  I  have  my  own  plan  of  operation.  We 
will  talk  of  that  fraternally.  I  do  not  ask 
more  than  two  years  to  place  myself  comfort- 
ably in  life." 

"Two  years? — you  ask  two  years?"  cried 
the  young  man,  with  an  expression  of  anger 
that  he  did  not  seek  to  conceal. 

"Is  that  exacting  too  much?  I  will  neglect 
nothing  that  may  shorten  this  time  of  trial." 

Maurice  terminated  the  interview  by  a  ges- 
ture of  heroic  resignation. 

At  this  moment,  Ursula,  unable  to  wait 
longer,  burst  like  a  water -spout  into  the 
chamber,  and  threw  herself  upon  the  neck  of 
her  young  master,  who  defended  himself  ill- 
humoredly  against  her  too  violent  tenderness. 
Then  retreating  to  the  embrasure  of  a  window, 
pale,  immobile,  with  hands  clenched,  he  silently 
regarded  the  two  women. 

It  had  grown  late,  and  Maurice  was  com- 
pelled to  go  with  them  to  the  door  of  the  little 


n8  MADELEINE: 


hotel  where  they  were  staying.  During  the 
walk,  he  had  to  submit  to  the  provincial  ques- 
tionings of  Ursula,  and  her  absurd  amazement. 
She  thought  the  street  lights  were  a  sign  of 
public  rejoicing ;  and  having  been  all  her  life 
intimate  with  the  saints  of  the  calendar,  she 
inquired  naively  if  it  was  in  honor  of  St.  Babo- 
lein  that  they  had  illuminated  the  city.  This 
childishness,  which  under  other  circumstances 
would  have  singularly  diverted  Maurice,  served 
only  to  exasperate  him.  He  returned  by  the 
quays,  which  were  now  deserted,  looking  eagerly 
at  the  glistening  black  water  of  the  river  that 
seemed  to  allure  him.  Returning  to  his  apart- 
ment, he  opened  his  box  of  pistols  and  contem- 
plated them  with  an  ardent  and  sombre  gaze. 

"  Sleep !  "  said  he  at  last,  slowly  closing  the 
lid.  u  Sleep,  faithful  friends,  until  the  day  of 
deliverance,  when  I  shall  come  to  awaken  you." 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


AFTER  some  hours  of  feverish  slumber, 
«*  Maurice  arose,  ashamed  of  his  weak- 
ness, furious  with  Madeleine,  and  exasperated 
with  himself.  Of  what  importance  to  him  was 
his  cousin's  destiny?  What  did  he  owe  to  her? 
Of  what  right,  by  what  title,  had  she  come  to 
impose  herself  upon  him?  Was  it  his  fault  that 
she  had  lost  her  lawsuit  ?  What ! — because  an 
aunt  whom  he  had  never  known  had  before 
giving  up  the  ghost  sent  into  France  a  young 
girl  for  whose  existence  he  had  never  cared, 

because  a  little  German  had  one  Autumn  even- 
119 


120  MADELEINE  : 


ing  knocked  at  the  door  of  Valtravers,  was  he 
obliged  thereby  to  live,  and  resign  himself  to 
the  rdle  of  guardian,  at  the  moment  when  he 
was  about  to  take  refuge  in  the  arms  of  death  ? 
How  long  had  it  been  the  mission  of  young 
men  to  escort  their  kinswomen  through  life  ? 
What  more  could  one  do  for  a  sister  ?  Besides, 
Madeleine  was  not  a  child.  She  was  at  least 
twenty-two  or  twenty-three  years  old ;  and  at 
this  age  orphans  cease  to  be  interesting.  This 
one  had  decidedly  abused  the  advantage  of 
being  without  a  family.  And  frankly,  what 
could  he  do  for  her?  His  resources  were 
exhausted.  He  had  nothing  —  not  even  the 
furniture  of  his  apartment,  which  represented 
only  the  amount  of  his  rent.  If  he  had 
resolved  to  kill  himself,  it  was  his  own  good 
pleasure;  and  in  fact,  at  the  point  where  he 
had  arrived,  any  other  determination  would 
have  singularly  embarrassed  him.  Work! — the 
word  costs  nothing.  But  when  one  has  taken 
root  in  vice  and  idleness,  it  is  not  so  easy  to 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  121 

become   transplanted    and    acclimated    in    the 
regions  of  order  and  labor. 

In  the  midst  of  these  irritating  and  confused 
reflections,  ready  to  break  the  engagements  so 
heedlessly  contracted  the  evening  before,  his 
cousin,  accompanied  by  Ursula,  smilingly  en- 
tered the  chamber.  Madeleine  was  simply  but 
neatly  attired  in  a  muslin  dress,  without  orna- 
ments, while  her  hair  was  arranged  in  a  plain 
band  upon  each  side  of  her  forehead.  Maurice, 
so  long  accustomed  to  women  magnificently 
dressed,  fancied  that  his  cousin  had  the  air  of  a 
grisette.  Thus  it  is  that  one  rarely  loses  the 
taste  for  simple  things,  without  losing  at  the 
same  time  the  instinct  that  recognizes  the  truly 
beautiful ;  so  intimately  blended  are  these  two 
sentiments.  Ursula  was  dressed  in  her  richest 
attire,  in  the  costume  of  the  girls  of  her  pro- 
vince. Her  low  shoes  with  silver  buckles,  her 
short  petticoats,  extravagant  head-dress  that 
she  greatly  exaggerated  in  the  effort  to  render 
herself  more  pleasing  to  her  foster-brother,  her 


122  MADELEINE: 


stout  and  vigorous  form,  full  bust,  white  teeth, 
and  ruddy  lips,  revealed  at  the  distance  of  a 
league  that  she  was  the  product  of  Limoges. 
The  shock  of  seeing  her  thus  bedizened  did 
not  tend  to  restore  the  tranquillity  of  Maurice. 

As  if  she  had  understood  her  cousin's  mood, 
Madeleine  seated  herself,  and  without  giving 
him  time  to  reconsider  what  had  been  decided 
the  evening  before,  she  explained  to  him  how 
she  intended  to  arrange  their  way  of  living. 
First  they  must  find,  in  a  quiet  quarter, 
under  one  roof,  two  small  lodgings,  one  for 
Maurice,  the  other  for  herself  and  Ursula, 
where  they  would  install  themselves  simply,  as 
suited  henceforth  their  humble  condition.  Mad- 
eleine had  saved  from  the  shipwreck  of  her 
fortune  some  diamonds  left  her  by  the  Mar- 
quise. The  amount  they  would  bring  would 
be  sufficient  for  their  installation  and  for  their 
present  needs,  provided  she  felt  herself  directed 
by  a  firm  hand  and  sheltered  by  a  faithful  heart. 
She  declared  herself  undisturbed  about  their 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


123 


affairs,  and  said  she  could  build  a  nest  in  keep- 
ing with  her  taste.  She  had,  according  to  the 
proverb,  "  more  than  one  string  to  her  bow." 
She  embroidered  like  a  fairy,  and  worked  in 
crochet  little  purses  of  silk  beaded  with  gold, 
marvellously  fine  and  delicate.  She  painted, 
on  wood,  birds  and  flowers,  which,  when  var- 
nished, had  the  lively  colors  of  the  tropics. 
She  could  give  lessons  on  the  piano,  and  in 
singing.  Above  all,  thanks  to  the  teachings  of 
Madame  de  Fresnes,  she  excelled  in  miniature 
painting.  Whether  from  respect  for  the  memory 
of  the  Marquise,  or  whether  really  the  most 
available  of  her  resources,  it  was  this  she  first 
determined  to  attempt.  Thus,  her  talents  did 
not  fail  her.  She  had,  besides  these,  the  winged 
courage  which  plays  with  obstacles ;  the  spon- 
taneous energy  that  seems  to  act  without  effort ; 
the  charming  gaiety  which  laughs  and  sings; 
the  unfailing  aid  of  the  will  that  works.  It  was 
thus  decided  that  Madeleine  should  try  her 
hand  at  miniatures;  and  she  was  joyous  as  a 


124 


MADELEINE  : 


child  in  thinking  that  she  would  live  in  Paris 
as  in  other  days  the  adorable  Marquise  had 
lived  in  Nuremburg.  As  the  reader  will  remem- 
ber, that  had  always  been  her  dream.  We  could 
even  affirm  that  in  this  view  there  was  in  the 
loss  of  her  fortune  something  that  pleased  her. 
As  for  Maurice,  he  would  remain  free  to  act  at 
his  own  pleasure,  and  to  follow  his  inclinations. 
Madeleine  only  asked  that  he  would  support 
and  direct  her  first  steps  in  the  world,  and 
in  the  career  she  had  chosen.  It  was  under- 
stood that  at  the  end  of  two  years  he  was  to 
be  given  his  independence,  and  become  again 
the  master  of  his  destiny.  Only  until  then 
Madeleine  would  have  the  right  to  lean  upon 
him  as  if  he  were  her  brother  —  as,  indeed,  he 
was  to  be  before  the  public,  to  escape  malignant 
comments. 

All  this  was  said  with  such  animation  and 
intensity  that  Maurice  found  no  place  to  put 
in  an  objection,  and  with  such  grace  and  good- 
humor  that  he  could  not  prevent  himself  from 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


125 


occasionally  smiling;  although  whenever  the 
young  girl  finished  a  sentence,  he  shook  his 
head  with  the  air  of  a  man  but  little  touched 
and  not  at  all  convinced.  But  immediately 
she  arose  and  took  his  arm  without  hesitation. 

"Cousin,  to-day  our  fraternity  commences. 
Remember  that  your  father  called  me  his 
daughter;  and  indeed  I  was  his  daughter, 
well  beloved.  The  day  is  beautiful,  and  we 
will  profit  by  it  to  seek  a  shelter  under  some 
modest  roof— you  must  decide  in  what  quarter. 
Besides,  you  must  be  in  haste  to  quit  this 
apartment,  whose  luxury  insults  your  poverty. 
Leave  it  as  soon  as  possible;  and,"  added  she, 
gaily,  "  try  to  leave  here  that  gloomy  and  heavy 
air  which  does  not  suit  your  age,  and  which  is 
not  becoming  to  you." 

"  Yes,  my  young  master,"  said  in  her  turn 
the  good  Ursula.  "  You  must  laugh  and  play, 
and  divert  yourself.  You  will  not  be  twenty- 
nine  until  St.  Nicaise's  day.  Jarni-Dieu !  it 
is  the  beautiful  age.  You  will  see  what  a 


I26  MADELEINE: 


pretty  little  family  we  will  make,  we  three, 
and  what  care  I  shall  take  of  you  two.  All 
is  not  lost,  since  there  remain  to  you  health, 
youth,  and  your  foster-sister,  who  will  make 
for  you,  as  at  Valtravers,  brown  biscuits  and 
the  pancakes  that  you  loved  so  well." 

Meanwhile,  Madeleine  had  led  out  Maurice, 
who  allowed  her  to  conduct  him  with  the 
heartiness  of  a  criminal  about  to  be  beheaded. 
At  the  door,  he  turned  and  saw  Ursula,  who 
prepared  to  follow  them. 

"  Art  thou  going  with  us  ? "  he  asked, 
brusquely,  surveying  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  What !  Am  I  going  with  you  ? "  she  cried, 
with  profound  astonishment.  "  My  young  mas- 
ter, do  you  suppose  that  it  is  to  gape  in  the 
air  that  I  have  put  on  my  best  clothes  ?  " 

"  Stupid  girl !  "  exclaimed  Maurice,  in  a  rage 
that  he  was  scarcely  able  to  conceal.  "  Dost 
thou  not  comprehend  that  thou  wilt  be  re- 
garded like  some  curious  beast  in  the  streets 
where  we  are  going  ?  " 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH   LOVE.          127 

"What  do  I  care ?"  replied  Ursula,  bridling 
up.  "  For  my  part,  I  will  not  be  afraid  to  show 
your  Parisians  of  what  timber  the  girls  of  Val- 
travers  are  made.  In  seeing  me  they  will  say, 
'Behold  the  foster-sister  of  Monsieur  Maurice;  ' 
and,  with  due  respect,  I  dare  believe  that  will 
do  you  honor,"  added  she,  making  him  a  low 
courtesy. 

Resigning  himself  to  drink  the  bitter  cup 
to  the  last  drop,  Maurice  replied  only  by  a 
gesture  of  mute  despair. 

A  few  moments  after,  they  were  walking  in 
the  boulevards,  Madeleine  on  the  arm  of  her 
cousin,  followed  closely  by  the  full  form  of 
Ursula,  her  arms  akimbo,  defending  herself 
from  the  billows  of  the  crowd  like  a  ship  under 
full  sail,  with  all  its  signals  spread.  It  was  one 
of  those  splendid  days  when  Paris  opens  its 
gilded  cages  and  liberates  its  prettiest  birds ; 
one  of  those  bright  suns  which  bring  upon  the 
glittering  pavements  of  the  great  city  a  popula- 
tion of  young  gallants  and  smiling  women.  To 


!  2  8  MA  DELEINE  : 


the  lively  regret  of  Ursula,  who  had  achieved 
already  a  complete  success,  and  whose  steps 
were  marked  by  a  veritable  triumph,  Maurice 
hastened  to  quit  these  regions  where  he  had  so 
many  times  displayed  the  luxuriance  of  his 
mistresses  and  his  horses.  To  tell  the  truth, 
the  place  was  no  longer  tenable.  Without 
speaking  of  her  costume,  which  riveted  the 
attention  of  all  passers,  Ursula,  believing  her 
young  master  as  well  known  in  Paris  as  at 
Neuvy-les-Bois,  addressed  him  from  time  to 
time  in  a  high  voice,  that  all  might  know  that 
she  was  in  his  company.  Sometimes,  when  the 
crowd  was  unusually  compact,  she  held  tightly 
to  the  tails  of  his  coat,  in  fear  of  losing  him  or 
of  being  herself  lost.  Maurice  occasionally 
turned  around  and  launched  at  her  a  withering 
look,  to  which  the  brave  girl  replied  simply  by 
a  kind  smile.  The  unhappy  young  man  was  in 
torment.  He  had  at  first  hoped  to  conceal  his 
shame  in  a  carriage ;  but  his  cousin  had  pre- 
vented this  by  remarking  that  such  grand  man- 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


129 


ners  did  not  suit  their  humble  fortune.  The 
sky,  she  said,  was  clear,  the  pavement  dry;  and 
simple  good  sense  told  that  they  could  not 
inspect  apartments  from  a  carriage.  Madeleine 
walked  lightly,  without  seeming  either  surprised 
or  annoyed  at  the  noise  and  motion  around  her ; 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  ill-humor  of  her 
companion,  which  he  no  longer  troubled  himself 
to  conceal.  They  had  now  reached  the  river. 
Near  the  gate  of  the  Louvre,  at  the  moment  they 
came  out  upon  the  quay,  that  which  Maurice 
had  most  dreaded,  happened.  They  stepped 
aside  to  make  way  for  an  open  carriage,  which 
advanced  rapidly.  He  was  quickly  recognized 
by  its  gay  occupants,  who  were  going  to  the 
Bois.  They  were  the  very  cream  of  that  world 
in  which  he  had  lived.  With  a  salutation  too 
profound  to  be  sincere,  four  or  five  gay  heads 
bowed  as  they  passed,  leaving  behind  them  a 
penetrating  perfume  of  cigars  and  Patchouly; 
while  the  poor  fellow,  immovable  in  his  steps, 
heard  in  the  distance  loud  bursts  of  laughter. 


130 


MADELEINE  : 


At  this  instant,  he  felt  a  lively  longing  to  throw 
both  Madeleine  and  Ursula  in  the  Seine. 

Even  if  on  quitting  his  lodgings  he  had  been 
piously  resolved  to  keep  his  engagements  of  the 
evening  before,  this  promenade  —  like  that  of  a 
galley-slave  with  a  ball  at  each  leg  —  would 
have  convinced  Maurice  that  what  he  had 
promised  was  beyond  his  power  to  fulfil.  To 
spend  two  years  in  such  a  life  was  simply  to 
take  two  years  in  which  to  die.  At  the  same 
time  he  saw  that  unless  he  had  lost  all  manhood 
he  could  not  abandon  these  two  poor  creatures  in 
Paris  without  either  protector  or  guide.  Perhaps 
he  would  not  have  recoiled  before  a  crime;  but 
he  had  a  horror  of  cowardice.  For  an  hour,  for 
example,  he  had  wished  to  wring  the  neck  of 
Ursula;  but  he  could  not  desert  two  helpless 
women  placed  under  his  protection. 

Pale  with  rage  and  mortification,  Maurice 
continued  his  walk  with  Madeleine.  Since  she 
desired  to  retire  into  a  modest  and  quiet  corner 
of  Paris,  he  thought  the  neighborhood  of  the 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  131 

Luxembourg  would  realize  her  wish.  As  Mau- 
rice had  to  resign  himself  to  pass  some  months 
near  her,  he  knew  that  in  this  quarter  —  the 
asylum  of  science  and  of  serious  study  —  he 
would  be  tolerably  certain  of  meeting  none  of 
his  acquaintances.  After  seeking  vainly  in  the 
public  streets  lodgings  that  suited  at  the  same 
time  the  poetic  instincts  and  the  modest  ambi- 
tion of  the  young  German,  they  dined  together 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Observatory.  This 
did  not  lighten,  however,  the  ill-humor  of  Mau- 
rice ;  for  the  task  of  climbing  four  or  five  stories, 
frequently  repeated,  had  disposed  him  to  a 
much  less  frugal  repast.  It  should  be  added, 
that  in  face  even  of  suicide  Maurice  had  re- 
tained habits  that  were  not  those  of  an  anchor- 
ite. He  valued,  above  all,  elegance  of  service ; 
and  although  disgusted  with  life,  thought  that  a 
gentleman,  the  evening  before  blowing  out  his 
brains,  should  not  touch  different  kinds  of  meat 
with  the  same  fork.  He  drank  with  the  edges 
of  his  lips,  and  ate  with  the  tips  of  his  teeth. 


132 


MADELEINE  : 


Ursula  simply  devoured.  Madeleine  declared 
that  she  had  never  made  so  charming  a  repast 
in  her  life.  As  they  returned,  seeking  right 
and  left  an  attractive  house,  they  plunged  by 
common  consent  into  a  street  whose  rural  aspect 
attracted  Madeleine;  crossing  from  the  Boule- 
vard des  Invalides  to  the  Rue  du  Bac,  which 
Madame  de  Stael  has  rendered  famous. 

Thanks  to  the  increase  of  population  and 
the  progress  of  industry,  before  five  hundred 
years  there  will  not  remain  in  Paris  a  refuge 
for  reverie.  For  to-day,  all  that  remains  of 
this  street  which  so  charmed  Madeleine  is  a 
double  row  of  houses,  more  or  less  new,  ugly, 
and  badly  built.  Then,  one  would  have  thought 
it  a  hamlet,  or  at  least  the  verdant  outskirts  of 
a  little  city  lost  in  the  foliage.  In  following  its 
paths,  one  met  the  odor  of  the  lilac  or  the 
perfume  of  the  lindens  in  flower ;  above  the 
walls,  acacias,  laburnums,  trees  of  Judea,  shook 
their  odorous  clusters.  In  the  depths  of  parks, 
where  the  nightingale  sang  during  the  Summer 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I33 

nights,  one  could  see  through  the  gates  beauti- 
ful houses,  before  which  played  happy  children. 
It  was,  in  a  word,  the  Rue  du  Babylone ;  thus 
named  perhaps  because  of  its  gardens,  perhaps 
because  in  old  times  it  had  been  the  residence 
of  the  bishop  of  the  antique  city  of  Semiramis. 
Ursula  fancied  herself  at  Valtravers,  and  asked 
where  was  the  Vienne.  Madeleine  declared 
that  it  would  be  happiness  for  her  to  live  in 
this  little  village,  lost  in  the  bosom  of  Paris. 
The  wish  of  the  young  girl  was  fulfilled.  She 
found,  in  one  of  those  rare  houses  which  here 
and  there  dot  the  landscape,  two  little  adjoin- 
ing apartments,  one  for  Maurice,  the  other  for 
herself  and  Ursula;  under  the  roof,  it  is  true, 
but  opening  upon  shady  grounds.  My  opinion 
is  —  and  it  was  that  of  Madeleine  —  that  it  is 
better  to  have  before  the  window  a  sprig  of 
verdure  than  the  colonnade  of  the  Louvre. 

Thus  terminated  the  day  which  gave  Maurice 
a  foretaste  of  the  delights  in  store  for  him. 
The  next  day,  and  those  which  followed,  were 


134 


MADELEINE: 


yet  more  rude  and  laborious.  It  is  not  all  to 
have  chosen  the  bush  in  which  to  build  a  nest; 
it  is  necessary  also  to  bring  there  sticks,  moss, 
and  down.  With  Ursula  always  at  his  heels, 
Maurice  was  compelled  to  accompany  Made- 
leine to  the  shops,  to  see  and  examine  all,  and 
to  hear  prices  discussed  and  debated;  he,  who 
had  never  bargained  in  his  life,  but  who  rather 
had  made  it  a  point  to  pay  dearer  than  others. 
Though  she  possessed  in  a  high  degree  the  sen- 
timents of  practicality,  though  naturally  endowed 
with  reason  as  well  as  grace,  Madeleine  showed 
in  her  purchases  a  childlike  joy  that  does  not 
think  of  figures,  and  that  is  careless  of  calcula- 
tions. But  Ursula,  who  imagined  that  the  shop- 
people  wished  to  cheat  her  as  a  Limousine,  the 
unpitying  Ursula  constantly  raised  interminable 
objections,  and  defended  the  interests  of  her 
master  with  a  sharp  parsimony  worthy  of  a  Jew. 
Strong  in  the  jaws  as  a  servant  of  Moliere,  she 
disputed  with  the  trades-people,  and  treated 
them  as  rascals  and  sharpers.  More  than  once, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I3S 

they  politely  showed  her  the  door.  Maurice 
thought  he  would  lose  his  head.  He  wished 
the  devil  had  her.  But  Ursula  did  not  restrain 
herself;  and  it  was  only  by  threatening  to  send 
her  back  into  the  country,  that  Maurice  could 
bring  her  to  moderation. 

At  the  end  of  a  week,  the  three  companions 
took  possession  of  their  little  domain.  On  the 
day  of  their  removal,  a  hack,  before  which  two 
lean  jades  were  harnessed,  stopped  noisily  at 
the  door  of  the  sumptuous  hotel  where  Maurice 
yet  resided.  Ursula  and  Madeleine  alighted. 

"  Come,  Maurice  !  come,  my  brother !  "  cried 
the  young  girl.  "  The  great  day  has  arrived. 
It  only  remains  to  say  a  last  adieu  to  these 
gilded  walls.  You  will  not  find  them  where  we 
are  going;  but  poverty  has  its  luxury,  and 
happiness  does  not  require  a  magnificent  home." 

"  Poor  lamb !  "  said  Ursula,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  ineffable  tenderness.  "  We  will  love  and 
cherish  him,  spoil  and  coddle  him,  until  he 
believes  himself  yet  at  Valtravers.  Sundays 


136  MADELEINE: 


and  holidays,  when  we  have  done  our  work,  we 
will  all  go  to  promenade  in  the  public  gardens. 
Hold,  Monsieur  Maurice !  I  am  too  happy !  It 
suffocates  me.  Jarni-Dieu !  I  must  embrace 
you !  " 

With  these  words,  the  good  creature  threw 
herself  upon  him  like  a  panther,  and  in  spite  of 
his  utmost  efforts  to  tear  himself  from  her  arms, 
she  gave  him  two  huge  kisses  upon  the  cheeks. 

The  hour  had  sounded;  the  hour  that 
Maurice  thought  should  never  have  arrived. 
He  had  counted  upon  some  unforeseen  accident, 
some  insurmountable  obstacle,  to  interpose ;  and 
yet  all  went  as  by  enchantment.  The  evening 
before,  he  had  said  to  himself  that  something 
must  yet  happen  to  relieve  him  of  this  strange 
position.  Yet  nothing  had  come — nothing  but 
the  Actual,  with  her  sure  foot  and  her  wrist  of 
iron.  Recoil?  He  had  no  longer  time.  Mau- 
rice was  not  the  man  to  waste  himself  in 
plaintive  elegies  or  poetic  adieus.  He  per- 
mitted Ursula  to  put  his  effects  in  the  carriage; 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


137 


then  he  took  under  his  arm  his  box  of  pistols, 
carrying  thus  all  his  fortune  and  his  last  hope. 
At  this  instant,  one  could  have  seen  upon  the 
face  of  Madeleine  a  reflection  of  that  celestial  joy 
which  must  illuminate  the  faces  of  angels  when 
they  come,  bringing  a  soul  that  has  wandered, 
into  the  presence  of  God. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  POET,  at  the  time  when  poets  lived  in 
garrets,  would  have  been  charmed  with 
the  lodgings  of  Madeleine  and  Maurice. 
Though  of  an  exceeding  simplicity,  taste  and 
elegance  were  shown  in  all  the  details  of  the 
furniture.  The  young  girl's  chamber  was  hung 
with  a  delicate  pearl-gray  paper,  on  which  were 
strewn  bouquets  of  violets  and  roses.  The 
only  ornaments  were  a  few  of  the  miniatures 
of  Madame  de  Fresnes,  which  had  been  re- 
ligiously preserved  —  among  them  a  copy  of 
the  Madonna  which  Madame  de  Mirbel  or 
David  might  not  have  disowned;  some  hang- 
ing-shelves with  books,  and  a  few  withered 
138 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


139 


flowers  that  had  been  brought  from  Valtravers. 
Near  the  window  was  a  table,  covered  with 
brushes,  boxes  of  colors,  and  small  squares  of 
porcelain.  Maurice's  chamber  was  arranged 
with  equal  neatness  and  simplicity ;  but  nothing 
there  indicated  habits  or  plans  of  work,  and 
one  would  have  searched  vainly  for  any  object 
to  which  was  linked  a  hope  or  a  recollection. 

"  It  is  not  elegant,"  said  Madeleine  to  him, 
"but  the  four  walls  where  we  work  and  love 
and  dream  are  to  us  always  those  of  a  palace." 

These  words  were  scarcely  noticed  by  Mau- 
rice, who,  when  left  alone,  strode  about  his 
room  like  a  lion  newly  put  in  his  cage.  It  was 
then  his  anger  found  vent ;  he  struck  his  fore- 
head, and  rolled  upon  his  bed  with  smothered 
cries  of  rage.  He  asked  himself  by  what 
cowardly  condescension,  what  incredible  weak- 
ness, he  had  permitted  himself  to  be  brought 
to  this.  He  accused  himself  of  imbecility,  and 
cursed  the  name  of  his  cousin. 

Whilst  Madeleine  busied  herself  in  arranging 


140 


MADELEINE  : 


the  new  ways  of  her  life,  Ursula  was  also  at 
work.  She  scrubbed  and  cleaned  and  polished, 
and  sang  in  a  high  voice  the  songs  of  her  coun- 
try. This  was  the  finishing  stroke  to  Maurice, 
who  left  the  house,  and  wandered  in  the  city 
all  the  evening,  not  knowing  or  caring  where 
accident  might  lead  him.  Toward  midnight  it 
began  to  rain.  Having  no  other  shelter  than 
his  garret  in  the  Rue  Babylone,  he  reluctantly 
sought  refuge  there.  Ursula,  who  was  watching 
for  his  return,  was  frightened  at  his  appearance. 
His  face  was  pale,  his  lips  livid,  and  his  sunken 
eyes  burned  with  a  feverish  light.  The  kind 
girl,  seriously  alarmed,  begged  him  to  come  into 
their  apartment;  but  he  refused  angrily,  and 
retired  to  his  chamber.  Seating  himself  near 
an  open  window,  he  remained  there  till  morn- 
ing, listening  to  the  trees  groaning  in  the  wind, 
and  watching  a  sky  little  less  sombre  and 
gloomy  than  his  own  soul.  In  the  morning, 
Ursula  found  him  delirious  with  fever. 

For  a  long  time  they  feared  for  his  life ;  but 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I41 

the  skill  of  science,  and  the  youth  which  was 
not  yet  dead  within  him,  more  than  the  solici- 
tude of  Madeleine  and  Ursula,  recalled  him 
gradually  back  to  life.  More  than  once  he 
thanked  them  with  a  tearful  eye;  more  than 
once  his  hand  sought  the  hand  of  his  cousin. 
One  day,  perceiving  a  portrait  of  his  father, 
painted  by  the  Marquise  a  year  before  his 
death,  which  Madeleine  had  placed  upon  the 
wall,  he  addressed  to  it,  in  a  voice  stifled  with 
sobs,  touching  words  of  repentance  and  remorse. 
The  first  day  he  was  able  to  leave  his  bed,  he 
found  upon  the  mantel  a  walnut  box  which  he 
had  not  seen  before.  He  raised  the  lid,  and 
recognized  the  tools  which  in  the  olden  times 
his  father  had  used  in  wood-carving. 

"  I  thought,"  said  Madeleine,  who  was  seated 
near  the  window,  "  that  you  would  like  these 
instruments  in  your  possession  —  or  at  least 
that  you  would  not  like  to  leave  them  to  the 
mercy  of  strangers." 

"Thanks,  my  sister,"  he  replied. 


142 


MADELEINE  : 


It  was  the  first  time  he  had  called  her  by 
this  name,  and  the  young  girl  paled  and 
trembled. 

"  Only  to  think,"  said  Ursula,  "  that  it  was 
with  these  that  Monsieur  le  Chevalier  earned 
his  bread  among  the  infidels !  —  Monsieur  le 
Chevalier,  a  nobleman,  a  great  lord,  an  aristo- 
crat !  —  and  that  his  white  hands  turned  toys 
as  if  he  had  only  done  that  all  his  life !  He 
was  not  ashamed  to  work  like  one  of  the  people. 
And  yet  he  was  a  proud  man." 

"He  had  a  grand  heart,"  said  Madeleine. 

"  And  the  Marquise !  "  continued  Ursula,  who 
was  not  the  girl  to  be  easily  diverted  from 
her  path.  "She  did  not  have  to  knock  long 
at  the  door  of  Paradise.  Think  of  a  great  lady 
like  her — one  who  had  been  at  court  —  paint- 
ing portraits  for  a  lot  of  beer-drinkers  and 
saur- kraut  eaters!  Jarni-Dieu!  she  was  a 
grand  woman !  " 

"Yes,"  said  Madeleine,  "  she  had  indeed  a 
beautiful  soul." 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  143 

"  Like  yours,  my  brave  young  lady,"  said 
Ursula,  carrying  Madeleine's  fingers  respect- 
fully to  her  lips. 

Like  people  who  hear  a  fable  without  caring 
for  the  moral,  Maurice  heard,  without  asking 
himself  if  perchance  there  was  in  this  discus- 
sion anything  intended  for  him.  The  one 
delightful  feature  of  convalescence  is  its  pro- 
found forgetfulness  of  the  future.  Too  feeble 
to  look  beyond  the  present  hour,  we  are  lost  in 
the  material  sentiment  of  our  recovery.  We 
feel  existence,  and  that  is  enough.  Little  by 
little,  with  returning  health,  we  resume  the 
burden  of  life. 

Although  he  was  out  of  danger,  and  almost 
re-established  in  health,  Madeleine  and  Ursula 
passed  most  of  their  time  with  Maurice.  At 
his  request,  his  cousin  had  brought  her  easel 
into  his  chamber,  and  worked  there  during  the 
day  and  often  watched  far  into  the  night,  whilst 
Ursula  dozed  and  knit.  Maurice  was  at  first 
pleased  with  this ;  but  with  the  progress  of  his 


144 


MADELEINE  : 


physical  cure  the  irritation  of  his  spirit  revived, 
and  he  began  to  weary  of  the  solicitude  of  these 
two  women,  who  would  not  quit  his  bedside. 
Soon  Conscience  began  to  whisper  to  him  of 
duty. 

One  night,  as  he  appeared  to  be  sleeping 
soundly,  Madeleine  and  Ursula,  working  by  the 
shaded  light  of  the  lamp,  talked  in  a  low  voice. 

"Poor  cherubin!  "  said  Ursula,  drawing  out 
her  needle.  "  I  do  not  regret  the  money  he  has 
cost  us.  For  him,  I  would  pawn  my  bonnet 
and  my  last  petticoat.  The  expenses  of  this 
illness  have  brought  us  to  our  last  louis." 

"  Do  not  disquiet  thyself,  my  good  Ursula. 
To-morrow  I  will  finish  this  little  box,  and  I  am 
sure  they  will  buy  it  at  the  shop  where  I  have 
sold  ten  already.  And  these  little  purses  are 
not  badly  made.  Such  trifles  sell  well  in  Paris. 
Besides,  I  have  yet  a  few  rings  and  jewels, 
which  we  will  send  to  join  my  diamonds." 

"  In  company  with  my  earrings  and  gold 
cross,"  added  Ursula.  "All  that  is  nothing; 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I45 

but,  my  dear  young  lady,  you  work  too  late. 
You  will  lose  your  eyesight,  and,  what  is  more 
precious,  your  health." 

"  I  am  stronger  than  I  appear,"  said  Made- 
leine. "  And  think,  Ursula,  of  our  invalid. 
His  convalescence  may  perhaps  be  long,  and  if 
we  do  not  provide  for  him  with  all  the  care 
that  his  condition  requires,  we  should  merit 
reproach,  for  he  resigned  himself  to  live  only 
for  us." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ursula,  turning  a  look  of  adora- 
tion toward  the  bed  where  her  young  master 
was  sleeping.  "  Just  at  the  moment  he  was 
about  to  blow  out  his  brains,  he  deprived  him- 
self of  the  pleasure  out  of  love  for  us.  And 
how  proud  he  was  to  walk  with  us  in  the 
streets !  Once  cured,  he  will  be  delighted  to 
work  for  his  cousin  and  his  foster-sister.  For 
he  is  an  angel,  Mademoiselle  Madeleine!  I 
always  said  he  was  an  angel." 

Maurice  was   not  sleeping.     He  had  heard 

all ;  and  the  next  day  he  left  his  bed,  as  calm 
i  o 


146  MADELEINE  : 


and  resolute  as  we  have  before  known  him 
angry  and  wild.  He  accepted  at  last  the  task 
that  had  fallen  to  his  lot. 

It  would  be  an  error  to  attribute  this  re-awak- 
ening of  his  will  to  emotions  of  tenderness  and 
gratitude.  With  his  health  Maurice  had  refound 
also  the  obduracy  of  his  soul.  The  devotion  of 
these  two  noble  women  only  irritated  him. 
God  has  put  pride  in  the  depth  of  our  hearts,  to 
supplant  at  need  virtue.  Maurice  was  ready  to 
assume  the  duties  that  devolved  upon  him, 
without  hesitation  but  without  enthusiasm.  But 
what  could  he  do?  To  work,  is  easily  said;  but 
one  must  first  know  how  to  work.  To  make 
toys  was  well  enough  in  Nuremburg,  which  is 
the  land  of  toys;  but  to  attempt  wood-carving 
in  Paris  —  there  were  a  thousand  difficulties. 
Besides,  he  had  neglected  the  art  so  long  as 
almost  to  fiave  forgotten  it.  As  for  literary 
labor,  he  dared  not  think  of  it.  At  that  period 
letters  had  some  prestige;  and  the  most  difficult 
of  arts  had  not  then  become  the  most  easy  of 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  147 

trades.  Some  years  later,  he  would  not  have 
hesitated;  and  thus  we  should  now  have  had 
one  great  writer  the  more.  To  be  born  at  the 
right  time  is  one  of  the  great  secrets  of  life. 

Tired  of  the  fruitless  study,  Maurice  con- 
sulted his  cousin.  The  young  girl  replied 
sweetly : 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself.  There  is  nothing 
pressing.  You  are  yet  weak  and  suffering. 
Regain  your  strength ;  the  rest  will  follow.  So 
long  as  I  feel  myself  under  your  care,  it  is 
enough.  I  am  strong,  and  have  good  courage. 
I  will  work  for  you  with  joy  till  the  time  comes 
when  happily  we  can  work  together." 

It  is  easy  to  imagine  how  such  words  irritated 
Maurice's  pride.  But  it  was  thus  that  chance 
—  or,  rather,  Providence,  in  the  character  of 
Madeleine  —  constrained  the  young  man  into 
the  only  path  that  was  open  to  him. 


CHAPTER    X. 

TN  a  wing  of  the  house  where  Maurice  and 
•*-  Madeleine  resided,  and  facing  their  apart- 
ment, were  three  modest  rooms,  inhabited  by  a 
young  artisan  and  his  family.  Pierre  Marceau 
was  a  cabinet-maker,  about  twenty-five  years  of 
age,  honest,  handsome,  frank,  always  in  a  good 
humor,  quite  charming  in  his  blouse  of  gray 
cotton  with  its  belt  of  varnished  leather  drawn 
around  his  supple  and  vigorous  body.  True,  he 
made  no  verses,  and  had  no  other  instruments  of 
music  than  his  plane  and  chisel.  Rising  with 
the  dawn,  he  worked  gaily  from  morning  till 
night,  as  if  convinced  that  labor  is  at  once  the 
poetry  of  the  people  and  the  best  means  by 

which   to   better   their   condition.      Gentle  and 
us 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


149 


amiable,  his  wife  worked  diligently  with  her 
needle,  while  keeping  her  eye  constantly  upon 
two  hearty  urchins  that  frolicked  about  their 
father.  From  time  to  time  Pierre  would  leave 
his  bench  to  bend  over  his  wife's  embroidery, 
or  to  take  in  his  arms  the  two  little  rogues; 
then  he  would  return  to  his  work  with  new 
ardor.  Sometimes  the  young  mother  would 
hum  in  a  soft  voice  a  song  of  Be'ranger  — 
one  of  those  immortal  songs  that  have  consoled 
the  heart  of  the  people.  Without  ceasing 
his  work,  the  father  would  join  in  the  refrain 
with  a  proud  and  energetic  voice.  When 
the  day  was  near  its  close,  the  pretty  house- 
wife busied  herself  in  preparing  the  supper, 
which  was  enlivened  by  the  prattling  of  the 
happy  children.  They  often  sat  long  around 
the  frugal  table,  and  the  evening  was  prolonged 
in  pleasant  and  familiar  talk. 

Leaning  his  elbow  upon  the  window-sill, 
Maurice  frequently  watched  with  a  listless  eye 
the  movements  of  this  industrious  and  happy 


MADELEINE: 


household.  Not  that  he  took  any  interest  in 
them,  or  sought  any  useful  instruction;  it  was 
to  him  simply  a  novel  spectacle.  But  Made- 
leine, from  her  window,  was  delighted  to  observe 
the  life  of  this  humble  family,  and  found  in  it 
a  wondrous  charm.  Little  by  little,  neighborly 
relations  had  come  to  be  established  between 
her  and  these  people.  She  caressed  the  chil- 
dren when  she  chanced  to  meet  them  upon  the 
stairs ;  and  during  the  illness  of  Maurice,  Pierre 
Marceau  had  come  more  than  once  to  ask  news 
of  him. 

One  morning,  having  noticed  that  the  cab- 
inet-maker planed  and  polished  oak,  as  in  the 
olden  time  Maurice  had  done  in  company  with 
the  good  Chevalier,  the  young  girl  watched  him 
attentively.  Bent  over  his  work-bench,  near 
the  open  window,  Marceau  appeared  to  be 
absorbed  in  some  difficulty  which  he  tried  in 
vain  to  overcome.  Suddenly,  with  a  violent 
gesture,  he  threw  down  his  tools  and  struck 
his  forehead  as  if  in  despair;  then,  crossing 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I5r 

his  arms  upom  his  breast,  he  assumed  an  atti- 
tude of  profound  dejection  and  discouragement. 
His  young  wife  hastened  to  him,  and  seemed 
trying,  by  caresses  and  sweet  words,  to  restore 
his  courage.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time,  he 
repulsed  her  rudely.  The  poor  woman  began 
weeping;  whilst  the  children  followed  her 
example,  and  screamed  at  their  best.  At  this 
scene,  Madeleine,  moved  by  a  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy, left  her  chamber,  and  in  a  few  moments 
appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  little  family. 

"Alas,  Mademoiselle !"  said  the  wife,  whom 
she  questioned  first,  "my  husband  should  finish 
to-day  an  order  upon  the  success  of  which  our 
future  depends.  Either  because  in  accepting 
the  work  he  overestimated  his  own  skill,  or 
because  his  powers  have  failed  him,  he  feels 
now  that  he  is  not  able  to  finish  the  task  con- 
fided to  him.  He  is  distressed  because  of  me 
and  our  little  children ;  and  I  weep  because  of 
his  distress." 

"See,  Mademoiselle!"  said  the  young  work- 


152  MADELEINE: 


man,  in  his  turn.  "  God  pardon  me  for  having 
dared  to  presume  that  He  had  put  in  me  the 
stuff  of  an  artist.  I  see  now  that  I  am  only 
fit  to  plane  planks  and  to  turn  sticks." 

"  Talent  has  its  hours,  like  fortune,"  replied 
Madeleine,  softly.  "  Mediocrity  alone  is  always 
ready,  and  never  hesitates.  But  let  us  see, 
Monsieur,  what  is  the  trouble." 

The  difficulty  was  one  respecting  a  piece  of 
wood-carving,  designed  to  represent  the  figure 
of  an  archangel,  and  intended  to  ornament  one 
of  the  churches  of  Paris.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
the  figure  was  badly  outlined.  Although  natu- 
rally indulgent,  Madeleine  was  forced  to  admit 
that  if  the  future  of  the  young  family  depended 
upon  the  merit  of  this  piece  of  work,  there  was 
good  reason  for  despair.  At  this  instant,  she 
saw  Maurice  at  his  window;  and  in  answer  to 
her  signal,  he  came  loungingly  toward  her. 

"  See,  my  brother !  "  she  said.  "  Is  there  no 
way  to  aid  these  good  people  in  their  embarrass- 
ment ? " 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE 


153 


The  situation  explained  to  him,  Maurice 
approached  the  piece  of  work  and  inspected 
it  with  a  disdainful  air.  Ranged  around  him, 
the  young  cabinet-maker,  his  wife,  and  Made- 
leine, awaited  anxiously  his  decision. 

Maurice  said  nothing,  but  suddenly  took  off 
his  coat,  turned  back  his  cuffs,  and  seizing  one 
of  the  tools,  resolutely  attacked  the  block  of 
oak,  which  had  been  so  obstinate  under  the 
hand  of  Marceau.  Madeleine  was  lost  in 
admiration.  Standing  in  mute  contemplation, 
the  young  couple  followed  the  progress  of  the 
work;  whilst  at  the  farther  side  of  the  work- 
table,  perched  curiously  in  their  chairs,  with 
blonde  heads  and  cherubic  faces,  the  two  chil- 
dren formed  natural  counterparts  of  the  figure 
which  grew  into  life  under  the  creative  chisel. 

Whatever  storms  may  have  traversed  and 
devastated  the  heart,  does  it,  like  the  desert 
of  Sahara,  enclose  only  arid  and  desolate  sands? 
One  flower  yet  grows  there,  in  all  its  freshness 
and  in  all  its  bloom.  Though  all  others  in  its 


154 


MADELEINE  : 


region  be  dead,  in  this  not  a  petal  fails  in  the 
corolla.  It  laughs  upon  the  end  of  its  stalk, 
which  no  wind  can  uproot.  This  flower  immor- 
tal of  the  human  heart  has  its  name:  it  is 
Vanity. —  Thus,  though  all  that  makes  life 
worthiest  was  dead  in  Maurice,  he  enjoyed  with 
a  secret  complaisance  the  effect  that  he  pro- 
duced upon  his  audience.  Under  the  stimulus 
of  his  self-love,  he  had  found,  as  by  enchant- 
ment, that  boldness  and  precision  of  the  chisel 
which  in  old  times  had  been  the  pride  of  the 
Chevalier.  Loosened  from  the  confining  oak, 
already  the  victorious  archangel  shook  his 
quivering  wings.  At  the  end  of  a  few  hours, 
the  figure  that  Maurice  had  found  in  a  rough 
outline  appeared  as  distinct  and  pure  as  if 
sculptured  in  marble. 

"See!"  said  he,  throwing  down  his  tools 
and  turning  down  his  cuffs;  "it  was  not  very 
difficult." 

It  is  impossible  to  picture  the  joy  of  the 
little  household.  The  two  children  clapped 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  I55 

their  hands  in  delight.  The  husband  and  wife, 
with  blended  sentiments  of  gratitude  and  admi- 
ration, praised  Maurice's  skill  and  thanked  him 
for  his  kindness.  Silent  and  smiling,  Madeleine 
contemplated,  with  happy  elation,  what  she 
fancied  was  passing  in  the  mind  of  her  cousin. 
But  this  elation  was  short  -  lived.  Maurice 
interrupted  their  expressions  of  gratitude  by 
curtly  putting  on  his  coat,  inwardly  cursing 
himself  for  the  stupid  pleasure  he  had  felt 
in  his  task. 

"Ah,  Monsieur!  you  have  saved  my  life!" 
cried  the  young  workman,  joyfully. 

"  I  prefer  to  believe,  Monsieur,"  replied 
Maurice,  dryly,  "  that  what  you  have  said  is  an 
exaggeration  of  speech.  Otherwise,  I  have 
rendered  you  a  very  bad  service,  for  which 
it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  thank  me." 

Then,  rudely  pushing  aside  the  little  chil- 
dren, who  had  caught  at  his  knees,  he  went  out 
as  he  had  come  in,  and  retired  to  his  chamber. 

Whence   came   this   angry  and   unreasoning 


156  MADELEINE: 


humor?  From  the  heart  of  man,  which  is  an 
abyss  of  cowardly  infamies.  Maurice  was 
furious  because  he  had  no  longer  either  pretext 
or  justification  for  doing  nothing. 

The  artisan  and  his  family  were  mortified 
at  their  inability  to  express  their  gratitude,  and 
grieved  at  the  abrupt  departure  of  their  bene- 
factor. Madeleine,  cruelly  stricken,  turned 
aside  to  wipe  away  her  tears. 

After  this,  as  she  had  scarcely  dared  hope, 
Maurice  had  frequent  interviews  with  Pierre 
Marceau.  He  said  nothing  in  Madeleine's 
presence,  but  she  saw  from  his  serious  and 
earnest  air  that  there  was  impending  a  change 
in  his  destiny. 

One  morning,  Ursula  hurried  in  and  threw 
herself  upon  Madeleine,  whom  she  covered 
with  tears  and  kis-ses.  Then,  taking  her  by  the 
hand,  she  drew  her  silently  toward  Maurice's 
apartment. 

"  Make  no  noise," she  whispered,  "but  look!  " 

Madeleine    held     her    breath,    and    peered 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


157 


through  the  half-open  door.  What  did  she 
see?  The  most  grateful  sight  possible  to  her. 
For  there,  bent  over  his  table,  in  his  blouse, 
Maurice  was  at  work. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

r  1  ""HE  time  was  a  propitious  one  for  wood- 
-*-  carving.  For  a  long  time  neglected  and 
nearly  lost,  this  branch  of  art  had  revived  again 
in  the  capricious  breath  of  fashion.  We  were 
then  in  the  full  moyen  dge.  Literature  made 
itself  Gothic,  to  rejuvenate  itself.  The  taste 
dominated  poetry,  as  it  had  all  the  arts  — 
painting,  statuary,  architecture.  By  a  natural 
sequence,  furniture  had  followed  the  same  ten- 
dency. Fashion  commenced  by  pulling  down 
a  number  of  chateaus  in  the  Provinces,  to  satisfy 
this  Parisian  mania ;  then,  when  the  chests,  the 
dressing-tables,  the  pantries,  the  arm-chairs 
158 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


159 


with  armorial  carvings,  failed  of  a  market,  when 
the  true  moyen  dge  was  exhausted,  they  were 
forced  to  create  one  of  new  things.  Wal- 
nut, oak,  pear,  fashioned  by  able  hands, 
cleverly  duped  more  than  one  connoisseur; 
and  this  innocent  ruse  enriched  some  favorite 
artists. 

Through  the  agency  of  Pierre  Marceau, 
Maurice  soon  found  himself  charged  with  some 
important  orders.  He  saw  that  he  could  in  a 
little  time  surround  himself  with  ease ;  at  least 
he  could  shelter  from  want  the  two  beings 
confided  to  his  care.  It  was  poverty,  but  inde- 
pendent poverty,  which  owes  nothing  to  anyone; 
without  care  in  the  morning,  without  regret  in 
the  evening;  a  hundred  times  preferable  to 
that  factitious  and  tormented  luxury  in  which 
Maurice  had  lived.  It  is  true,  the  young  man 
appeared  to  be  neither  convinced  of  the  advan- 
tages of  his  new  condition,  nor  affected  by  them. 
He  accepted  his  destiny,  but  he  detested  it. 
He  worked,  but  cursed  the  work.  Many  times, 


160  MADELEINE: 


during  these  last  months,  he  felt  his  courage 
weaken  and  his  will  falter.  Many  times  he 
abandoned  himself  to  feelings  of  desperation, 
even  in  the  presence  of  his  cousin.  He  would 
throw  down  his  tools  in  anger,  and  break  under 
his  feet  the  work  he  had  commenced,  as  though 
ignorant  of  that  simple  courtesy  which  doubles 
the  worth  of  sacrifice.  That  which  stimulated 
and  sustained  him  in  the  struggle  he  had  com- 
menced, was  pride.  Above  all,  he  wished  to 
owe  nothing  to  his  cousin.  He  said  to  himself 
that  the  sooner  he  could  assure  the  future 
existence  of  Madeleine,  the  sooner  he  would 
be  free  to  finish  as  he  pleased.  The  spectre 
of  suicide  still  watched  at  his  bedside;  not 
menacingly,  but  as  an  angel  of  deliverance. 

There  is  a  joy  of  which  those  are  ignorant 
whose  life  has  only  cost  the  pain  of  being  born ; 
a  joy  that  Maurice  felt  more  keenly,  because, 
not  having  foreseen  it,  he  had  not  thought  to 
defend  himself  against  it.  I  speak  of  the 
puerile  joy,  if  you  choose  so  to  call  it,  that  one 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.          161 

feels  in  holding  in  his  hand  the  first  money 
that  he  has  gained  by  his  labor.  No,  this  joy  is 
not  puerile ;  for  it  is  nothing  else  than  the  con- 
sciousness of  our  personal  value.  Are  not  the 
riches  created  by  our  work  the  most  legitimate 
of  all  riches,  and  those  of  which  we  are  most 
justly  proud?  The  heir  who  counts  his  gold 
is  poorer  in  the  sight  of  God  than  the  workman 
who  receives  his  wages. —  These  reflections  were 
far  from  Maurice's  mind ;  but  when  he  saw 
upon  his  table  some  louis  that  Pierre  Marceau 
had  received  for  him,  he  examined  them  one 
by  one  with  an  expression  of  childish  curiosity. 
One  would  have  thought  him  a  miser,  or  a  poor 
wretch  who  handles  money  for  the  first  time. 
By  a  naive  impulse,  worthy  of  the  best  days 
of  his  youth,  he  started  gaily  to  carry  his  earn- 
ings in  triumph  to  Madeleine.  He  laughed  as 
at  twenty  years.  Alas !  he  was  not  at  her  door, 
before  he  despised  his  own  contentment  —  the 
stupid  sentiment  which  had  brought  him  to  his 
cousin.  Ursula  was  in  the  ante-chamber.  He 
11 


MADELEINE: 


threw  coldly  into  her  lap  a  handful  of  money, 
and  retired  without  a  word. 

In  the  accomplishment  of  a  serious  duty, 
hard  and  painful  as  it  may  be,  God  has  given 
even  degraded  souls  an  internal  feeling  of 
satisfaction.  The  most  disagreeable  calling 
has  its  hours  of  elevation ;  and  the  culture  of 
an  art,  modest  though  it  be,  has  its  moments 
of  enthusiasm.  Maurice  was  conscious  of  an 
unacknowledged  charm  in  feeling  himself  useful 
and  necessary.  He  sometimes  even  conceived 
a  passion  for  the  figure  his  chisel  had  created. 
The  chaste  images  of  his  youth  played  around 
his  table.  The  portrait  of  his  father  seemed 
to  smile  down  upon  him  in  encouragement. 
His  fits  of  fury  became  less  and  less  frequent; 
and  before  many  months,  when  the  night  came 
Maurice  would  be  astonished  at  the  flight  of 
time  and  at  the  peace  he  had  felt.  Labor 
brings  with  it  its  own  recompense.  It  isolates 
us  from  the  world,  and  also  from  ourselves. 
If  we  owed  to  it  only  the  serenity  which  crowns 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  163 

each  day  that  is  well  spent,  we  should  bless 
and  love  it.  Unhappily,  these  healthy  influ- 
ences had  not  time  to  fructify  in  the  spirit 
of  Maurice,  who,  when  his  day  was  finished, 
dissipated  in  the  outer  world  the  moral  profit 
he  had  gained  in  retirement.  Too  exalted,  in 
his  opinion,  to  subject  himself  to  an  existence 
commonplace  and  regular,  he  had  declared 
definitely  that  he  would  now  live  in  his  own 
manner.  The  truth  is,  he  was  not  anxious  for 
a  permanent  lease  of  the  cuisine  of  Ursula; 
and  to  take  his  repasts  Ute-a-tete  with  Madeline, 
did  not  tempt  him.  Like  all  weak  natures, 
he  wished  to  show  plainly  that  it  was  by  his 
own  will  that  he  uplifted  himself.  He  break- 
fasted frugally  in  his  chamber;  in  the  evening, 
when  the  clock  struck  six,  he  quit  his  blouse, 
dressed  himself,  and  left  the  house,  often 
without  having  seen  his  cousin  during  the 
day.  He  thought  that  after  providing  for  her 
wants,  he  owed  her  nothing.  He  went  out 
calmly,  his  head  clear,  his  blood  cooled  by 


164  MADELEINE: 


work,  silence,  and  solitude ;  elated  at  leaving 
his  garret,  being  lost  in  the  crowd,  and  free 
upon  the  pavement.  But  where  should  he 
go  ?  He  had  broken  violently  with  his  past. 
No  friend  remained  to  him ;  or,  more  correctly, 
in  the  world  where  he  had  wasted  his  youth, 
one  has  companions,  but  not  friends.  He 
wandered  by  chance ;  but  a  fatal  charm  too 
often  led  him  to  those  places  where  he  had 
foundered.  Pale  and  haggard,  he  wandered 
on,  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  walls ;  like 
a  shipwrecked  mariner  driven  upon  the  shore, 
and  regarding  with  a  jealous  eye  the  vessels 
that  ride  upon  the  waves  which  have  engulfed 
his  fortune.  He  passed  along,  with  a  sombre 
air,  in  this  eternal  ftte  of  Paris  which  wears  no 
mourning  for  its  victims;  where  the  youngest, 
the  most  beautiful,  the  most  brilliant,  disappear, 
leaving  behind  them  neither  regret  nor  vacancy 
—  not  even  the  luminous  trace  left  by  a  falling 
star. 

Upon  those  boulevards  flooded  with  light,  in 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  ^5 

the  midst  of  those  enchantments  that  are  the 
pride  of  Paris  and  the  marvel  of  the  world,  in 
those  avenues  where  he  had  so  often  prome- 
naded in  his  elegant  idleness,  Maurice  thought 
of  the  Rue  Babylone,  of  his  garret  and  his  table ; 
and  tears  of  rage  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
Irritable,  feverish,  miserable,  he  returned  like  a 
wild  beast  with  a  thousand  wounds.  Before 
retiring  to  his  chamber,  he  rarely  failed  to  enter 
the  apartment  of  Madeleine,  who,  as  well  as 
Ursula,  had  the  habit  of  working  late.  This 
was  an  impulse  of  neither  solicitude  nor  polite- 
ness. He  simply  obeyed  the  cowardly  need  of 
venting  his  anger ;  and  avenged  upon  these  two 
poor  women  the  ills  that  he  endured.  It  is  the 
special  characteristic  of  egotists,  to  wish  when 
they  suffer  that  all  around  should  suffer  with 
them.  His  hat  upon  his  head,  his  coat  buttoned 
to  his  throat,  he  would  enter  brusquely,  his  face 
haggard,  and  his  mouth  fixed  in  an  expression 
of  disdain.  Ursula  would  receive  him  with  a 
caress,  and  Madeleine  with  a  smile;  never  an 


1 66  MA  DELEINE  : 


indiscreet  question,  never  a  wounding  word ; 
nothing  in  their  welcome  that  did  not  breathe 
tenderness,  as  if  he  were  the  most  amiable  of 
brothers,  the  most  charming  of  friends.  Repuls- 
ing brutally  his  foster-sister,  and  casting  a 
haughty  glance  at  the  picture  the  young  Ger- 
man was  making,  he  would  seat  himself  at  the 
extremity  of  the  chamber,  watching  their  work 
with  an  angry  and  cynical  air.  The  calmness, 
the  order,  the  harmonious  grace,  which  reigned 
under  this  humble  roof,  in  place  of  appeasing, 
only  exasperated  him.  Ordinarily  taciturn,  he 
had  at  these  times  a  cruel,  aggressive,  and 
implacable  gaiety.  Habitually  silent,  he  became 
ingenious,  witty,  eloquent,  to  torture  the  heart 
of  his  cousin.  Madeleine  responded  only  by 
soft  reason  and  unalterable  goodness;  but 
Ursula  knew  how  she  wept  when  he  was  gone. 
The  outrage  went  even  farther.  Maurice 
belonged  to  that  school  of  young  route — Love- 
laces of  the  side-scenes,  Don  Juans  of  the 
lower  class — who,  because  they  have  stupidly 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  ^ 

consumed  their  patrimony  with  lost  creatures, 
believe  that  they  know  women,  and  glorify 
themselves  for  their  contempt  of  them.  For 
two  or  three  withered  and  faded  Bacchantes, 
these  petty  dandies  speak  of  one -half  the 
human  race  with  such  irreverence  that  one  is 
tempted  to  ask  of  what  trades  are  their  sisters, 
and  what  breasts  have  nourished  them  ? 
Although  he  did  not  consider  his  cousin  either 
beautiful  or  desirable,  Maurice  thought  to  him- 
self that  he  was  playing  the  part  of  a  fool. 
Instead  of  those  feelings  which  this  chaste  and 
fair  beauty  left  perfectly  tranquil,  self-love  and 
vanity  mounted  to  his  head.  Was  it  natural,  he 
asked  himself,  that  a  young  man  not  yet  thirty 
should  live  fraternally  under  the  same  roof  with 
a  fair  young  girl  ?  What  would  his  old  com- 
panions think?  What  could  Madeleine  think 
herself?  For,  in  the  tenderness  which  she  had 
shown  him,  Maurice  did  not  hesitate  to  see  an 
encouragement.  However,  every  time  he  went 
near  her  with  the  intention  of  changing  a 


!68  MADELEINE: 


position  that  seemed  to  him  ridiculous,  seized 
with  a  vague  sentiment  of  respect  that  he  could 
not  explain,  he  retired  without  daring  even  to 
touch  her  hand. 

Having  gone  out  one  morning  when  work 
failed,  Maurice  wandered  until  evening  under 
one  of  those  burning  suns  which  ferment  the 
mire  of  swamps  and  the  vileness  of  impure 
passions.  He  dined  at  a  rude  tavern  *in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  old  Theatre  Italien. 
Seated  in  an  obscure  place,  under  the  light  of 
a  dim  lamp,  he  ate  but  little,  and  drank  deeply 
of  a  bottle  of  old  wine  mixed  with  alcohol,  which 
had  never  paid  duty  at  the  Custom  House. 
Leaning  upon  the  table,  his  forehead  in  his 
hands,  he  was  plunged  for  a  long  time  in  a 
chaos  of  irritating  thoughts.  Excited  by  the 
fumes  of  drunkenness,  his  brain  and  his  senses 
inflamed,  he  passed  the  remainder  of  the  even- 
ing in  public  places,  watching  the  movements 
of  those  infamous  sirens  who  are  emptied  upon 
the  pavement  by  the  sewers  of  Parisian  life. 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  169 

When  he  entered  the  apartment  of  his  cousin, 
he  felt  a  savage  joy  at  finding  her  alone.  Made- 
leine was  reading  when  Maurice  entered.  She 
closed  her  book,  laid  it  on  the  table,  and  wel- 
comed her  cousin  without  appearing  to  notice 
the  change  in  his  features.  Maurice  seated 
himself  near  her,  and  with  an  abrupt  voice, 
whose  accents  suited  insult  better  than  flattery, 
he  began  such  exaggerated  compliments  that 
the  young  girl  regarded  him  at  first  with  sur- 
prise, which  ended  with  a  hearty  burst  of  laugh- 
ter. This  was  another  spur ;  this  silvery  laugh, 
this  gaiety  of  a  nymph  without  suspicion, 
pursued  by  a  satyr  and  believing  it  only  play, 
finished  the  irritation  of  Maurice  and  pushed 
him  to  the  end.  Stifling  a  cry  of  inward  rage, 
he  spoke  of  love  with  the  transports  of  hate, 
of  tenderness  in  a  tone  of  wrath,  in  language 
whose  obscurity  was  sometimes  pierced  by  a 
sinister  light.  White,  cold,  immobile,  like  Chas- 
tity astonished  to  see  at  her  feet  offerings  suited 
to  the  altar  of  the  impure  Venus,  Madeleine, 


I7o  MADELEINE: 


whilst  he  spoke,  regarded  him  with  an  air  at 
once  so  proud  and  so  sad,  that  Maurice,  crushed 
under  her  look,  stopped  short  as  if  he  had 
pressed  in  his  arms  an  insensible  marble.  Still 
in  the  same  attitude,  Madeleine. betrayed  neither 
anger  nor  indignation ;  only  a  mixture  of  mater- 
nal pity  and  grieved  astonishment.  Maurice, 
unable  to  endure  it,  arose  and  fled  in  affright. 

After  some  hours  of  that  heavy  sleep  that 
follows  drunkenness,  he  awoke,  and  remember- 
ing what  had  passed,  was  ready  to  die  with 
shame  and  confusion.  Not  that  his  conscience 
reproached  him ;  it  was  habituated  to  indul- 
gence. But  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
having  to  blush  before  Madeleine.  The  day 
drew  to  its  close.  Maurice  was  still  a  prey  to 
these  reflections,  when  his  cousin  entered  his 
room.  He  blushed,  paled,  and  trembled.  He 
wished  the  floor  would  open  beneath  his  feet, 
or  the  roof  fall  upon  his  head.  With  her  hand 
extended,  and  a  kind  look,  she  called  him  her 
brother.  For  an  instant  he  thought  he  had 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


171 


only  dreamed  the  scene  of  the  evening  before. 
Maurice  was  touched  by  the  generosity  of 
Madeleine.  He  saw  that  Virtue  is  not  neces- 
sarily ridiculous  or  harsh,  but  that  she  can  be 
amiable  and  forgiving.  Madeleine  said  that 
she  came  to  ask  him  to  dine  with  her  that 
day.  He  first  looked  at  the  sky,  which  since 
morning  had  been  dark  with  rain.  To  go  out 
in  such  weather  to  seek  a  meagre  repast  at  a 
rude  tavern,  was  not  a  pleasing  prospect.  On 
the  other  hand,  his  stomach  yet  suffered  from 
the  excesses  of  the  previous  evening.  I  have 
read  somewhere  that  the  days  that  follow  orgies 
make  anchorites.  In  short,  Maurice,  who  judged 
himself  culpable  towards  his  cousin,  was  not 
sorry  to  expiate  his  sin  at  so  little  expense.  In 
his  turn  grand  and  generous,  he  yielded  to 
Madeleine's  request. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  table  was  spread  in  a  small  dining- 
room,  beautifully  papered  in  imitation  of 
oak.  The  fire-place  was  surrounded  by  clusters 
of  asters,  dahlias,  and  chrysanthemums.  The 
single  window  looked  out  upon  the  little  park, 
whose  trees  the  winds  of  Autumn  had  now 
stripped  of  their  foliage.  The  table  was  narrow; 
and  the  luxury  of  the  service  would  not  have 
startled  either  a  Quaker  or  a  Trappist.  But 
the  shining  whiteness  of  the  cloth,  which  ex- 
haled the  perfume  of  lavender,  gave  the  whole 
a  bright  and  pleasant  air.  Seating  himself 
face-to-face  with  Madeleine,  who  did  the  honors 
of  her  poverty  with  a  grace  sometimes  unknown 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


173 


to  riches,  Maurice  was  forced  to  confess  to  him- 
self that  it  was  much  better  than  the  horrid 
tavern  where  he  usually  dined.  The  dishes 
were  not  numerous  or  expensive ;  but  they 
were  wholesome,  and  exquisitely  prepared ;  for 
Ursula  had  shown  in  this  dinner  all  her  skill, 
and  the  good  girl  had  surpassed  herself.  Neat, 
smiling,  quick -footed  and  light-handed,  her 
sleeves  turned  back  to  the  elbows,  uncovering 
her  rounded  and  dimpled  arms,  she  hovered 
about  the  table,  serving  Maurice  with  the 
daintiest  morsels,  and  overjoyed  whenever  he 
found  something  especially  to  his  taste.  Made- 
leine ate  little,  and  gave  all  her  attention  to 
her  cousin,  with  the  proud  and  happy  solicitude 
of  a  young  housekeeper.  The  object  of  all  this 
care  could  not  help  being  a  little  touched  by 
it ;  and  asked  himself,  in  some  humiliation, 
what  he  had  done  to  merit  it.  It  should  be 
added  that  he  was  not  insensible  to  the  talent 
of  Ursula,  which  he  had  not  before  suspected. 
Another  surprise  revealed  itself  to  him  at 


174 


MADELEINE  : 


dessert.  Ursula  approached  him  with  an  enor- 
mous bouquet,  and  recited  a  little  verse  that 
she  had  learned  for  the  occasion.  But  emotion 
choked  her  voice,  and  she  ended  by  throwing 
herself  upon  her  foster-brother,  wishing  him  a 
happy  birth-day,  and  covering  him  with  tears 
and  kisses.  It  was  then  Madeleine's  turn. 
Extending  her  pretty  hand  across  the  table  to 
Maurice,  she  addressed  him  some  simple  and 
affectionate  words.  Ursula  then  brought,  with 
the  pancakes  and  biscuit,  as  at  Valtravers, 
a  bottle  of  old  wine  wreathed  with  flowers, 
that  they  had  purchased  in  honor  of  this  day 
by  a  month  of  privation  and  rigorous  economy. 
The  sky  was  clear;  the  birds  had  finished 
their  evening  songs;  the  odor  of  fallen  leaves 
entered  at  the  open  window;  and,  as  he  was 
about  to  disappear  below  the  horizon,  the  sun 
sent  a  joyous  ray  across  the  table,  lighting 
the  glasses  until  they  shone  like  precious 
crystals. 

Since    Maurice    had    quitted    the    paternal 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


'75 


roof,  it  was  the  first  celebration  of  his  birth- 
day. For  ten  years  forgotten  and  lost,  this 
anniversary  awakened  the  best  recollections  of 
his  youth.  He  recalled  the  time  when  it  was 
a  day  of  public  rejoicing  at  Valtravers ;  when, 
seated  between  the  Marquise  and  the  Chevalier, 
the  old  servants  had  come  to  offer  their  com- 
pliments and  good-wishes.  At  these  memories, 
his  heart  softened  and  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  Madeleine,  who  was  observing  him,  rose 
and  went  to  him,  to  take  advantage  of  this 
good  impulse.  Leaning  upon  his  shoulder,  she 
bent  over  him  her  virginal  head,  and  remained 
thus,  like  the  beautiful  statue  in  the  Louvre 
known  as  Polyhymnia;  or  like  a  guardian 
angel  watching  the  resurrection  of  the  soul 
committed  to  her  care.  In  thinking  what  she 
had  been  to  him,  and  what  he  had  been  to 
her,  Maurice's  hardened  soul  was  softened. 
This  time  his  pride,  instead  of  being  irritated, 
bent  in  humiliation.  Not  a  word  disturbed 
the  tender  scene.  Ursula  herself  was  silent 


176  MADELEINE: 


Only  when  the  young  man,  by  a  gesture  too 
abrupt  not  to  be  involuntary,  seized  Madeleine's 
hand  and  carried  it  to  his  lips,  Ursula  could 
not  restrain  one  of  her  usual  bursts  of 
adoration,  as  if  her  foster-brother  had  just 
accomplished  the  most  beautiful  action  in  the 
world. 

The  evening  was  finished  in  Madeleine's 
chamber,  in  exchanging  reminiscences  of  Val- 
travers,  of  the  Marquise,  of  the  good  Chevalier; 
and  also  of  that  Autumn  evening  when  Maurice 
found  Madeleine,  a  victim  of  the  rascally 
Pierrot,  weeping  in  the  forest.  They  enter- 
tained themselves  in  recounting  the  scene  of 
their  arrival  at  the  chateau,  the  little  orphan 
upon  the  arm  of  the  young  cavalier,  she  not 
suspecting  that  it  was  the  little  Maurice  of 
whom  she  had  so  often  heard;  the  horse 
following  after,  with  the  bridle  on  his  neck; 
the  setting  sun  illuminating  the  towers  of  the 
beautiful  chateau;  and  at  last  the  two  old 
companions  who  stood  upon  the  doorstep  to 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


177 


receive  the  young  stranger.  They  forgot  them- 
selves in  these  recollections,  which  warbled 
in  their  memories  like  birds  in  an  aviary. 
Maurice,  charmed  by  the  melody,  forgot, 
except  at  rare  intervals,  the  cynical  accom- 
paniment of  Don  Juan,  which  grew  feeble  and 
was  almost  lost  in  the  song. 

When  about  to  retire,  he  was  forced  to  admit 
to  himself  that  life  still  had  its  good  half-hours, 
and  that  poverty  as  well  as  fortune  has  its 
fetes.  He  regarded  his  tools  without  anger, 
and  the  portrait  of  his  father  with  satisfaction. 
Saying  to  himself  that  they  were  two  good 
girls  —  his  cousin  and  his  foster-sister  —  he 
slept  in  unaccustomed  peace.  His  slumber 
was  calm  and  profound.  Awakened  at  dawn 
by  the  voice  of  Pierre  Marceau,  who  saluted 
the  day  and  praised  God  by  singing  and 
working,  he  sprang  from  bed  and  set  himself 
resolutely  at  his  work. 
12 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  I X)  believe  that  Maurice  was  saved,  to 
-*-  rejoice  and  chant  victory,  to  believe  that 
it  only  remained  for  him  to  extend  his  hand 
and  seize  again  youth  and  its  vanished  trea- 
sures, would  be  to  expose  oneself  to  cruel 
disappointments,  and  to  misunderstand  at  the 
same  time  the  purpose  of  God,  who  wills  that 
expiation  precedes  rehabilitation,  and  does  not 
permit  man  to  regain  in  one  day  the  summit 
of  the  holy  mountain  from  which  he  has  fallen. 
The  ascent  is  hard  to  climb ;  and  I  have  known 
those  stronger  than  Maurice  to  be  arrested 
midway,  pallid,  bruised,  despairing,  when  they 
measured  with  frightened  eye  the  distance  they 
178 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


179 


had  yet  to  go.  It  is  true  that  they  had  not  near 
them  an  angel  to  sustain  them  and  wipe  the 
sweat  from  their  faces ;  to  show  the  shortest  and 
easiest  way  by  which  fallen  souls  can  regain 
those  celestial  heights. 

Autumn  drew  near  its  close.  November 
advanced,  shivering  in  her  frosty  mantle.  Re- 
covered from  his  prejudice  against  the  cooking 
of  Ursula,  forced  by  the  rigor  of  the  weather  to 
reconcile  himself  to  family  life,  Maurice  had 
finally  resigned  himself  to  dine  regularly  with 
his  cousin.  When  the  north-wind  whistled,  and 
the  hoar-frost  wrought  fantastic  figures  on  the 
windows,  it  was  not  unpleasant  for  him  to  think 
of  the  place  waiting  for  him  at  Madeleine's 
table,  not  two  steps  off,  in  a  warm  and  com- 
fortable room,  where  two  smiling  faces  never 
failed  to  welcome  him  with  eagerness.  To 
appreciate  such  joys  it  is  not  necessary  to  be 
a  Grandison.  Maurice  brought  usually  to  these 
repasts  the  formidable  appetite  that  he  owed 
to  work,  and  that  rendered  him  indulgent  to 


!8o  MADELEINE: 


the  plainness  of  the  service.  Ursula  knew  the 
tastes  of  her  young  master,  and  it  was  her  glory 
to  prepare  the  dishes  that  he  liked.  Madeleine 
added  the  grace  of  her  spirit.  Maurice,  who  no 
longer  allowed  himself  to  be  easily  charmed  by 
poetic  illusions,  marveled  at  the  qualities  in  his 
cousin  to  which  he  had  been  blind  so  long. 
Thus  all  went  well  at  the  table.  Unhappily, 
the  evenings  dragged  more  heavily;  not  for 
Madeleine  or  Ursula,  but  for  Maurice,  who  did 
not  know  how  to  employ  them.  It  is  to  be 
remarked  that  women  are  always  occupied; 
whilst  men  do  nothing  when  they  cease  to  work 
seriously.  While  they  busied  themselves  with 
their  needles  or  crochet,  Maurice,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  wandered  about  the  chamber 
with  a  wearied  air.  Even  between  the  finest 
intellects,  subjects  of  conversation  are  not  inex- 
haustible. Men  have  invented  cards  and  chess, 
to  dispense  with  speech  when  they  are  together. 
Since  the  birth-day  supper,  Maurice  had  been 
less  bitter  in  his  manner,  and  had  more  self- 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE  jgi 

control.  More  than  once,  with  trembling  lips, 
he  had  held  back  some  reproachful  sentence; 
and  yet,  do  what  he  could  to  subjugate  himself, 
exasperated  by  ennui,  he  rarely  finished  an 
evening  without  some  bitter  or  wounding  word 
escaping  him.  Madeleine,  becoming  more  sure 
of  her  empire,  replied  with  a  pleasant  firmness, 
in  that  charming  tone  which  reason  employs 
when  tempered  with  kindness  and  goodness. 
From  time  to  time  Ursula  glided  in  her  little 
word.  Maurice,  at  first  irritated,  would  pre- 
serve a  sullen  silence ;  sometimes  he  could  not 
keep  himself  from  laughing.  To  overcome  his 
weariness,  Madeleine  occasionally  begged  Mau- 
rice to  read  to  them ;  but  he  refused  in  disdain. 
During  his  life  of  idleness  and  dissipation,  he 
had  rarely  opened  a  book.  Repulsed  at  first, 
Madeleine  did  not  despair.  One  evening  she 
handed  him  one  of  the  most  charming  works  of 
English  literature  :  the  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield." 
In  this  book,  Goldsmith  has  recounted  the  joys 
and  anguish  of  a  family.  Maurice,  in  his  pro- 


1 82  MADELEINE: 


found  ignorance,  looked  at  the  first  page,  and 
asked  Madeleine  if  she  considered  him  a  child 
that  was  to  be  amused  with  nursery  stories. 
Madeleine  insisted ;  and  Maurice,  to  rid  himself 
of  her  importunities,  began  the  reading  of  this 
admirable  narrative.  In  the  painting  of  its 
characters,  the  manner  in  which  they  are  intro- 
duced, the  art  with  which  the  least  circumstance 
conforms  to  the  action  of  the  story,  there  is  so 
much  that  is  natural,  and  so  powerfully  is  it 
depicted,  that  it  is  difficult  to  quit  the  book 
before  having  finished  it.  Maurice,  in  spite  of 
his  superb  disdain  for  what  he  called  these 
nursery  stories,  could  not  resist  the  attraction 
of  this  domestic  epic.  His  daily  association 
with  Madeleine  had  already  softened  his  heart, 
and  prepared  it  to  receive  and  nourish  these 
precious  germs.  In  seeing  how  the  most  obscure 
destinies  are  proved  by  trial,  he  understood  that 
there  is  a  place  for  the  most  exalted  virtues,  for 
the  most  heroic  devotion,  in  the  humblest  con- 
ditions of  life.  He  finished  the  story  at  a 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  ^3 

sitting,  and  thanked  his  cousin  for  the  pleasure 
she  had  furnished  him.  From  that  day  he  did 
not  need  to  be  urged  to  read.  Closing  the 
books,  the  little  group  exchanged  their  thoughts 
and  their  sentiments.  Ursula  took  part  in  the 
discussions;  and  thus  the  evenings  were  fin- 
ished without  having  to  count  the  hours. 

Occasionally  Pierre  Marceau  and  his  wife 
would  come  to  pass  the  evening  with  Madeleine, 
who  felt  a  sincere  friendship  for  this  little 
household.  In  Pierre  she  saw  the  providential 
instrument  for  the  restoration  of  Maurice.  She 
could  not  forget  that  but  for  him  Maurice 
would  have  been  a  long  time  without  the 
occasion  to  put  himself  to  work.  The  artisan 
remembered  the  intervention  of  Madeleine, 
and  the  succor  that  Maurice  had  rendered  at 
a  moment  when  his  fortune  was  at  stake.  The 
little  family  had  soon  understood  that  these 
young  people,  whom  they  believed  to  be  brother 
and  sister,  were  not  in  their  proper  place. 
Also,  with  a  tact  that  education  does  not  give, 


MADELEINE: 


they  brought  into  the  relation  of  neighbors  a 
sentiment  of  respect  and  deference  which  took 
nothing  from  the  sincerity  of  their  affection. 
They  came  usually  after  their  children  were  in 
bed.  Sometimes,  at  the  request  of  Madeleine, 
they  brought  their  little  ones.  Maurice  at 
first  opposed  this  intrusion.  Of  the  aristo- 
cratic blood  that  he  had  in  his  veins,  the  poor 
fellow  had  kept  only  the  instincts  of  pride  and 
idleness.  One  day,  before  Madeleine,  he  spoke 
of  these  poor  people  with  contempt.  She, 
feeling  more  secure  of  her  place,  answered 
him  for  the  first  time  with  severity. 

"  You  are  an  ingrate,"  said  she.  "  Even  if 
Marceau  had  not  opened  to  you  the  way 
of  life  in  which  you  have  entered,  you  should 
still  be  proud  to  touch  the  hand  of  a  man 
who  has  closed  the  eyes  of  his  old  father, 
and  who  supports  his  wife  and  children." 

At  this  merited  rebuke,  Maurice,  who  a 
short  time  before  would  have  raved  in  anger, 
blushed  and  was  silent. 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  ^5 

One  evening  both  families  were  together. 
The'rese — the  wife  of  the  young  artisan — had 
brought  her  work,  and  the  three  women  were 
seated  about  the  lamp,  working  and  talking 
in  a  low  voice.  Marceau  sat  a  little  apart. 
Maurice,  leaning  upon  the  table,  one  hand  in 
his  hair,  turned  with  the  other  the  leaves  of  a 
book  that  he  had  brought  home,  and  the 
selection  of  which  would  have  astonished 
Madeleine  if  she  could  have  divined  the  poison 
it  contained.  He  read  it  with  the  air  of  a 
fallen  angel,  triumphant  in  evil.  The  sight 
singularly  troubled  his  cousin.  Curious  and 
disquieted,  she  begged  of  him  to  read  it  aloud. 
He  obeyed  with  alacrity. 

It  was  one  of  those  romances,  so  numerous 
some  years  ago,  but  which  happily  become 
rarer  from  day  to  day,  which  speak  with  disdain, 
almost  with  contempt,  of  such  sentiments  as 
duty  and  family;  whilst  on  the  other  hand 
they  exalt  passion,  and  attribute  to  it  a  divine 
mission.  In  this  romance,  like  so  many  others 


1 86  MADELEINE: 


published  at  that  period,  the  hero,  after  tramp- 
ling under  his  feet  all  the  ridiculous  prejudices 
that  education  gives,  after  posing  himself  in 
the  face  of  society  like  an  Ajax  insulting  the 
gods,  or  rather  like  a  Solon  who  would  regen- 
erate them  by  the  example  of  his  life,  after 
having  maintained  against  existing  institutions 
a  bitter  struggle,  finishes  by  losing  his  own 
courage.  Despairing  of  things  and  of  men, 
indignant  towards  a  corrupt  society  that  refuses 
to  receive  the  mandates  of  his  pride  as  the 
oracles  of  genius,  to  punish  it  he  takes  refuge 
in  suicide,  as  the  last  and  only  asylum  remain- 
ing here  below  for  grand  hearts  and  beautiful 
souls.  But  he  does  not  wish  to  acknowledge 
himself  vanquished.  He  tries  to  hide  his  agony 
and  defeat  by  throwing  to  Heaven  and  to  earth 
a  cry  of  rage  and  defiance.  All  these  beautiful 
things,  which  have  been  the  admiration  of  a 
generation,  were  written  in  a  high-sounding 
but  hollow  style — something  like  the  humming- 
tops  which  the  old  Chevalier  had  made  at 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  i8j 

Nuremburg.  Maurice  found  in  this  book  the 
faithful  image  of  thoughts  that  had  long 
dwelt  with  him,  and  which,  now  slumbering, 
might  re-awaken  at  the  first  imprudent  breath. 
His  eyes  glowed  with  a  sinister  light.  His 
voice  assumed,  little  by  little,  a  terrible  and 
menacing  accent.  He  had  so  thoroughly  iden- 
tified himself  with  the  hero  whose  imprecations 
he  read,  that  he  believed  himself  speaking  in 
his  name.  The  genius  of  evil  had  again  seized 
him.  Madeleine  listened  tremblingly;  The"rese 
was  astonished;  Ursula  had  a  jeering  look; 
whilst  Pierre  Marceau  had  his  accustomed 
expression  of  good  humor.  When  Maurice  had 
finished,  he  threw  his  book  upon  the  table, 
and  surveyed  his  auditors  with  an  air  of 
triumph  and  questioning  curiosity. 

"What  stuff!"  said  Ursula.  "What  silly 
trash !  Who  is  this  wicked  scapegrace  who  has 
taken  it  into  his  head  to  reform  the  world,  and 
who  does  not  even  know  how  to  govern  his  own 
life?" 


!88  MADELEINE: 


"Monsieur,"  said  Pierre  Marceau,  "it  is  a 
worthless  hero  who  can  find  nothing  better  to 
do  than  to  kill  himself.  Men  of  any  value  have 
always  a  part  to  play  in  the  drama  of  life; — 
only  they  must  be  careful  to  choose  a  rdlc  suited 
to  their  strength.  I  am  only  an  artisan,  but  I 
value  the  work  of  my  hands  higher  than  the 
grand  phrases  of  this  false  logic." 

Therese  confessed  candidly  that  she  knew 
nothing  about  it.  Madeleine  applauded  silently 
the  words  of  Ursula,  of  Marceau,  and  of 
Therese.  Astonished  by  the  strange  result 
of  his  reading,  Maurice  took  his  hat  and  went 
out. 

This  evening  was  not  lost  to  Maurice.  Alone 
with  himself,  after  having  given  scope  to  his 
anger,  after  having  qualified  as  one  can  imagine 
the  intelligence  of  Ursula,  of  Therese,  and  of 
Marceau,  after  having  exhausted  all  the  epithets 
which  disdain  could  furnish,  he  was  forced  in 
spite  of  himself  to  recognize  that  they  had  taken 
in  hand  the  cause  of  good  sense. 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  igg 

Later,  he  returned  and  found  Madeleine  with 
Marceau  and  his  wife.  His  spirit  was  soothed 
by  their  calmness  and  happiness.  Even  the 
children,  who  usually  excited  his  impatience  and 
ill-humor,  awakened  in  him  an  unaccustomed 
tenderness.  He  took  them  upon  his  knees, 
covered  them  with  caresses,  and  comprehended 
for  the  first  time  the  joys  of  a  family. 

Thus  this  young  man  struggled  against  the 
muddy  current  that  pressed  against  him.  A 
little  sturdy  effort,  and  he  would  touch  the 
shore,  where  he  could  shake  the  mire  from  his 
feet  and  uplift  his  head  in  serene  regions. 

But  this  laborious  and  retired  existence  had 
its  diversions  and  its  pleasures.  Maurice  and 
Madeleine  sometimes  went  to  the  theatre.  One 
night  they  were  at  the  Opera  when  the  play  was 
"William  Tell."  In  the  days  of  his  excesses, 
he  had  never  passed  an  evening  at  the  opera 
without  profound  weariness.  In  the  midst  of 
the  frivolities  of  his  companions,  it  is  doubtful 
if  he  had  ever  understood  what  inspiration 


190 


MADELEINE  : 


there  is  in  music — in  this  form  of  imagination 
so  vague  and  yet  so  rich.  The  accents  of  a 
melodious  voice  had  never  transported  him  to 
the  ideal  regions  of  passion  and  reverie. 

Seated  near  Madeleine,  alone  in  the  crowd 
that  surrounded  them,  and  that  sent  him  not 
one  friendly  look,  he  listened  to  this  last  chant 
of  Rossini  as  to  a  new  language  whose  meaning 
is  revealed  to  him  for  the  first  time.  The  first 
measure  had  deliciously  affected  him.  Aston- 
ished, he  felt  himself  penetrated  with  sympathy 
and  enthusiasm  for  this  beautiful  poem.  The 
sobs  of  Arnold,  at  the  moment  when  he  learns 
of  the  death  of  his  father,  awakened  within  him 
memories  of  his  own  father,  dead,  without  his 
having  pressed  for  a  last  time  that  feeble  hand. 
The  oath  of  the  Cantons,  united  for  common 
deliverance,  touched  in  his  heart  a  chord  that 
had  been  mute  before :  the  love  of  country  and 
of  liberty.  All  these  holy  sentiments  held  him 
closely;  for  when  one  of  them  takes  possession 
of  our  conscience,  she  calls  her  sisters  by  a 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


191 


mysterious  sign,  and  opens  to  them  the  door  of 
a  new  domain. 

Maurice  subjected  himself  to  a  sad  and 
severe  review.  He  asked  himself  what  he  had 
done  for  his  country,  what  he  had  done  for  his 
family.  He  exchanged  a  few  words  with  his 
cousin;  but  Madeleine  understood  from  the  tone 
of  his  voice  that  his  thoughts  were  not  upon  his 
lips.  Fearing  to  trouble  him,  she  did  not  speak 
again. 

They  returned  in  the  starry  night,  recounting 
to  each  other  their  emotions.  In  listening  to 
Madeleine,  Maurice  discovered  new  reasons  for 
admiration  that  had  escaped  him  before.  Dom- 
inated by  the  profound  impression  created  by 
the  play,  after  reaching  home  he  opened  the 
window  to  contemplate  the  heaven  whose  seren- 
ity had  descended  into  his  heart.  Then  he 
seated  himself  near  the  young  German,  who,  to 
crown  worthily  this  poetic  evening,  begged  him 
to  read  to  her  the  "  William  Tell  "  of  Schiller. 
He  obeyed  with  joy.  Scarcely  had  he  read  the 


192 


MADELEINE  : 


first  page,  when  his  voice,  transformed  as  if 
by  enchantment,  took  a  new  accent,  to  which 
Madeleine  listened  with  delight.  As  he  ad- 
vanced in  this  recital  of  the  marvellous  deliver- 
ance of  a  people,  he  appeared  to  be  transfigured. 
His  forehead  lightened;  his  look  seemed  ani- 
mated with  celestial  hope.  The  old  man  was 
effaced,  and  Madeleine  contemplated  with  pride 
the  new  man  that  she  saw  before  her.  That 
evening  was  to  be  fruitful. 

In  comprehending  the  extent  of  his  duties, 
Maurice  did  not  deceive  himself  as  to  his  own 
power;  for  Madeleine  had  the  art  both  to 
excite  and  restrain  him.  He  did  not  exag- 
gerate the  importance  of  the  part  he  had  to 
play.  There  are  people  enough,  God  knows, 
who  believe  they  have  been  called  to  occupy 
the  chair  of  state.  Maurice  had  the  good- 
sense  not  to  desire  to  increase  the  number. 
He  kept  himself  prudently  in  his  place;  feeling 
that  it  is  not  given  to  all  to  conduct  public 
affairs,  but  that  it  is  the  duty  of  all  to  interest 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


193 


themselves  in  them.  From  that  day  he  followed 
with  an  ardent  solicitude  the  march  of  events. 
His  heart  was  no  longer  shut  to  those  senti- 
ments of  honor  and  of  glory  which  before  he 
had  ridiculed. 

Thanks  to  his  constant  labor,  Maurice  now 
enjoyed  a  fair  degree  of  prosperity.  Madeleine 
had  studied  music,  and  sang  with  taste. 
Maurice  had  not  forgotten  this;  and  to  thank 
his  cousin  for  the  care  that  she  had  lavished 
upon  him  —  above  all,  in  recognition  of  the 
angelic  patience  with  which  she  had  borne  his 
anger  and  his  hardness, —  he  made  her  a 
present  of  a  piano.  It  was  a  grand  occasion 
for  Madeleine.  This  unexpected  present  gave 
new  life  to  their  little  family  assemblies. 
Pierre  Marceau,  with  his  wife  and  children, 
listened  to  the  music  with  delight.  Maurice 
also  was  pleased. 

One  evening  when  he  was  alone  with 
Madeleine,  she  played  for  him  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  and  touching  of  the  melodies 

13 


194 


MADELEINE  : 


of  Schubert:  the  "Adieu."  That  which  I 
love  above  all  else  in  the  compositions  of 
Schubert,  is  that  they  cannot  endure  medi- 
ocrity. Faithfully  and  sympathetically  rendered, 
they  inspire  us  to  ecstacy,  lulling  us  to  delicious 
reverie.  Sung  without  intelligence,  but  with 
literal  exactness,  they  plunge  us  into  profound 
weariness.  They  are  a  touchstone  which 
rarely  deceives.  To  charm  with  the  melodies 
of  Schubert,  it  is  not  enough  to  know  music. 
It  needs  also  the  soul  of  a  poet.  Madeleine  felt 
profoundly  the  influence  of  this  divine  genius ; 
and  she  knew  how  to  render  with  simplicity 
all  that  she  felt.  Her  voice  had  not  great 
volume,  but  silvery  sweetness.  One  could  not 
hear  it  without  emotion.  She  sang  the  "  Adieu  " 
with  a  melancholy  so  touching  that  Maurice 
was  deeply  moved.  As  he  looked  at  her, 
he  understood  for  the  first  time  that  she 
was  beautiful.  Not,  as  I  have  said,  that 
she  offered  to  the  sculptor  a  type  of  perfection ; 
but  her  soul  looked  through  her  eyes,  and  her 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  195 

melodious  lips  had  a  sweetness  that  no  words 
could  tell.  Maurice  had  never  before  separated 
beauty  from  voluptuousness.  He  had  con- 
founded admiration  with  desire.  But  a  new 
sense  was  about  to  unfold  its  bud.  He 
contemplated  Madeleine  with  a  devotion 
almost  religious;  like  that  which  a  pilgrim 
might  feel,  kneeling  before  a  Madonna. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THUS  was  realized  the  dream  of  the  good 
Marquise,  which  came  to  her  but  a  few 
hours  before  her  death.  By  the  aid  of  the 
hand  which  Madeleine  extended  to  him,  Maurice 
climbed  little  by  little  from  the  depths  of  the 
abyss  where  he  had  fallen,  to  the  light  of  day. 
Already  he  was  strengthened  by  the  exhilar- 
ating influence  of  those  higher  regions  that  he 
had  gained.  He  felt  their  cool  breezes  fanning 
his  forehead  and  playing  in  his  hair.  He 
heard  confusedly  the  voices  of  his  youth, 
chanting  the  chorus  of  his  return.  His  face 
wore  the  glorious  impress  of  rehabilitation. 
His  features,  so  long  marred  by  evil  passions, 
and  withered  before  their  time,  now  bore  the 
196 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


197 


stamp  of  dignity  that  labor  impresses  upon  the 
brows  of  men  of  courage  and  of  will.  His 
eyes,  once  dulled  by  debauch,  had  regained 
their  clearness.  The  tones  of  his  voice  had 
softened.  When  he  walked  near  his  cousin,  his 
step  re-found  the  lightness  of  his  young  years. 
A  second  Spring-time  bloomed  for  him — with 
less  of  grace  and  freshness  than  the  first,  but 
fruitful  in  promises  more  sure,  and  already 
rich  with  treasures  of  the  Summer. 

Alas!  the  poor  child  had  not  reached  this 
height  without  effort.  How  many  times,  with 
bleeding  feet  and  face  bathed  in  sweat,  he  had 
stopped  discouraged  by  the  way!  How  many 
times,  stumbling  when  almost  at  the  summit, 
he  felt  himself  slip  back  to  the  beginning  of 
the  ascent  that  he  had  climbed  so  painfully! 
Often,  in  a  single  hour  of  weakness  or  rebellion, 
he  lost  the  fruits  of  months  of  struggling. 
Often,  at  the  moment  when  the  good  seed  had 
commenced  to  germinate  in  his  heart,  some 
dreadful  storm,  impossible  to  foresee,  annihi- 


198  MADELEINE; 


lated  the  hope  of  the  harvest.  But  Madeleine 
watched  always.  Her  angelic  patience,  her 
indefatigable  solicitude,  sustained  and  uplifted 
him;  and  her  hand  planted  anew  the  growth 
that  the  tempest  had  uprooted. 

It  is  the  punishment  of  those  who  have 
lived  badly,  that  they  drag  after  them,  even 
in  a  better  life,  the  sombre  shadow  of  their 
past.  There  were  hours  in  Maurice's  life  when, 
overwhelmed  with  despair  under  the  burden 
of  his  faults,  the  spectre  of  his  lost  youth  rose 
before  him,  and  struck  him  mute  with  terror. 
With  dismay  the  unhappy  man  saw  slowly 
defile  before  him  the  gloomy  cortege  of  his 
recollections : —  his  father  abandoned  in  his 
old  age;  the  home  of  his  ancestors  sold  to 
strangers;  the  destiny  of  Madeleine  left  to 
the  hazard  of  accident.  He  suffered  in  silence 
under  his  self-reproach,  like  the  Lacedemonian 
youth  with  the  wolf  gnawing  at  his  side.  But 
Madeleine  was  always  with  him,  vigilantly 
watching  every  impulse  of  his  soul.  She  knew, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE, 


199 


better  even  than  himself,  what  was  passing  in 
his  thoughts.  In  his  days  of  weakness  or  of 
silent  melancholy,  she  redoubled  her  touching 
tenderness.  Sometimes  she  would  go  to  the 
piano;  and,  like  Orestes  at  the  voice  of  his 
sister  Electra,  the  listening  Maurice  felt  his 
remorse  assuaged.  Tears  came  —  tears  that 
are  divine ;  the  celestial  dew  that  washes  away 
the  stains  of  the  soul. 

Kneeling  in  her  chamber,  the  pure  young 
girl  prayed  for  her  cousin  with  fervor  —  know- 
ing that  the  creature  is  nothing  without  the 
Creator,  and  that  the  noblest  enterprises  fail 
unless  favored  by  Heaven.  God,  who  reads 
hearts,  had  already  blessed  her  work.  The 
Maurice  whom  we  have  known  —  cynical,  bitter, 
unpitying,  disbelieving  —  this  Maurice  existed 
no  longer.  Madeleine  had  made  of  him  a  new 
man ;  and  if  sometimes  the  old  man  re-appeared, 
it  was  but  a  pale  and  unsubstantial  phantom, 
that  the  brave  girl  exorcised  with  a  gesture  or 
a  look.  If  the  passing  storm  reverberated  at 


200  MADELEINE: 


intervals,  it  was  only  the  sound  of  the  distant 
thunder  which  clears  the  sky.  Maurice  had  no 
longer  moods  of  sadness  or  ill-humor  that  could 
withstand  a  word  from  his  cousin.  Even  Ursula, 
who  so  long  had  only  irritated  him,  now  infected 
him  with  her  gaiety.  Whenever  he  showed 
signs  of  the  old  restlessness,  his  foster-sister 
brought  him  to  his  better  senses  with  some  pro- 
vincial sally  which,  instead  of  exasperating  him, 
forced  him  to  laughter.  He  now  ate  willingly 
of  that  fruit  of  reality  which  he  at  first  turned 
from  in  disgust.  The  taste  of  this  fruit,  though 
bitter,  is  wholesome ;  and  Maurice  came  to 
love  it.  He  learned  that  there  is  more  of  real 
greatness  in  the  accomplishment  of  a  duty, 
humble  and  modest  though  it  be,  than  in  that 
philosophy  of  lackeys  which  consists  in  decry- 
ing all  that  uplifts  humanity.  Like  his  father 
at  Nuremburg,  he  had  learned  to  respect  the 
royalty  of  intellect.  He  loved  the  arts,  he  read 
and  appreciated  the  poets.  He  became  an 
attentive  witness  of  the  progress  of  ideas ;  and 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.  2OI 

welcomed  with  eagerness,  sometimes  with  en- 
thusiasm, those  Utopian  dreams  that  not  long 
before  had  excited  his  anger  and  disdain.  Pre- 
serving an  implacable  hatred  of  that  envious 
low  democracy  which,  pretending  to  be  the 
friend  of  the  people,  is  the  enemy  of  all  true 
excellence,  detesting  the  charlatans  who  make 
a  trade  of  socialism  and  philanthropy,  he  yet 
venerated  those  disinterested  souls  who  embrace 
with  sincere  devotion  the  cause  of  labor  and 
poverty.  Child  of  an  unbelieving  century,  under 
the  influence  of  his  good  angel  he  felt  re-awaken 
within  him,  not  faith,  but  hope  and  charity.  He 
did  not  yet  believe;  but  he  hoped,  and  he 
wished  to  believe.  He  agreed  willingly  with 
Madeleine,  that  one  risks  nothing  in  following 
the  truths  that  Religion  teaches.  He  learned 
also  that  life  is  sweet  when  it  is  useful ;  that  it 
is  only  the  egotist  and  the  weak  who  kill  them- 
selves. The  spectre  of  suicide  no  longer  watched 
beside  his  couch.  People  who  work  from  morn- 
ing until  evening,  do  not  think  much  about 


2O2 


MADELEINE  : 


blowing  out  their  brains.  Those  famous  pistols, 
which  had  inspired  such  beautiful  phrases,  Mau- 
rice sold  to  buy  flowers  for  his  cousin  upon  her 
birth-day. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A5IDE  from  the  days  of  Maurice's  despon- 
dency, which  had  become  more  and  more 
rare,  time  ran  on  in  enchanted  hours.  The 
two  years  which  he  had  pledged,  with  such 
bad  grace,  to  his  cousin,  had  been  for  some 
months  expired.  He  no  longer  sought  to 
reclaim  his  liberty.  Captivated  by  the  taste 
for  labor,  he  was  passionately  in  love  with  his 
art.  Work  did  not  fail  him.  By  the  agency 
of  Pierre  Marceau,  orders  came  to  him  without 
his  solicitation.  He  gained  in  wood-sculpture 
almost  as  much  success  as  his  father  had  in 
making  nut-crackers  and  humming-tops;  whilst 
Madeleine's  miniatures  had  become  numerous 
in  the  galleries  of  the  aristocracy.  The  story 
had  run  through  society,  that  the  son  of  a 
noble  family,  and  his  young  sister,  ruined  by 

903 


204 


MADELEINE  : 


a  lawsuit,  lived  by  the  labor  of  their  hands 
under  a  roof  in  the  Rue  Babylone.  No  more 
was  needed  to  interest  a  world  which  watches 
eagerly  every  occasion  of  diversion.  After 
their  poverty,  Madeleine  and  Maurice  enjoyed 
their  growing  prosperity.  They  might,  if  they 
had  chosen,  have  now  quitted  their  Mansard 
and  established  themselves  more  elegantly ; — 
at  least,  they  could  have  sought  two  nests  less 
highly  perched.  Maurice  had  contemplated 
this.  Not  that  he  desired  more  sumptuous 
apartments.  He  loved  his  little  lodging,  where 
he  had  learned  to  recognize  the  truth  of  the 
words  of  Madeleine  — "  The  walls  that  see  us 
work  and  dream  and  hope  are  always  to  us 
the  walls  of  a  palace."  But  this  young  man, 
before  so  brusque  and  hard,  now  felt  for 
Madeleine  the  solicitude  of  a  brother.  It  was 
the  grief  of  his  life,  that  he  was  not  able  to 
restore  to  her  the  fortune  that  she  had  lost. 
Many  times  he  had  offered  her  larger  and 
more  commodious  apartments,  in  a  less  retired 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


205 


quarter;  but  she  had  answered :  "  Why  change 
our  way  of  life?  We  are  happy  here,  and 
happiness  has  its  habitudes,  which  it  is  not 
wise  to  disturb."  If  Maurice  still  urged  the 
matter,  he  secretly  applauded  her  decision. 
Thus  they  remained  in  their  retirement,  without 
other  acquaintances  than  the  Marceaus.  As 
for  Ursula,  she  regretted  nothing  and  desired 
nothing.  She  sang  continually  the  praises  of 
Maurice,  and  repeated  oftener  than  ever  that 
he  was  "An  angel — an  angel  from  Heaven  — 
an  angel  from  the  good  God!" 

In  fine  weather  they  went  on  Sundays  to  the 
country.  These  were  their  only  holidays.  They 
passed  the  day  on  the  hills  or  in  the  valleys, 
returning  at  night  happy  and  joyous.  Thus 
Maurice  saw  again,  with  his  cousin,  the  forests  of 
Luciennes  and  of  Celle,  where  two  years  before 
he  had  walked  and  thought  of  suicide.  Under 
the  chestnut  trees  and  by  the  side  of  the  little 
lake  bordered  with  mimosas,  where  before  Death 
had  appeared,  Life  bloomed  for  him  anew. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  happened  that  Maurice  was  seized  by  a 
strange  malady  He  felt,  when  with  Made- 
leine, an  inexplicable  trouble.  He  paled  and 
blushed  beneath  her  look,  and  trembled  at  the 
sound  of  her  voice.  If  by  chance  she  came  to 
his  apartments,  he  received  her  with  the  awk- 
wardness and  embarrassment  of  a  boy.  At  all 
hours,  even  in  his  slumbers,  he  was  conscious 
of  an  enchantment  that  was  going  on  within 
him.  What  was  passing?  Maurice  had  one 
day  a  vague  presentiment. 

Through  the  friendly  offices  of  Marceau,  the 
young  artist  had  received  an  order  for  a  grand 
figure  in  wood,  representing  Saint  Elizabeth  of 

Hungary,  which  a  wealthy  English  baronet  de- 
206 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


207 


signed  for  the  decoration  of  an  oratory  in  his 
castle  in  Lancashire.  Maurice  had  undertaken 
this  piece  the  more  willingly,  because  it  was  for 
this  saint  that  his  mother  was  named.  But  in 
proceeding  with  his  work,  in  spite  of  the  knowl- 
edge he  had  gained  from  the  instructions  of  his 
father,  in  spite  of  the  dexterity  with  which  he 
had  so  long  handled  the  chisel,  he  felt  an  unac- 
countable distrust  of  his  own  skill.  Till  then 
he  had  played  with  difficulties  with  a  boldness 
that  was  almost  presumption.  Now  he  delayed 
and  hesitated.  He  scarcely  dared  attempt  the 
outline  of  the  figure  upon  the  wood.  He  was 
surprised  at  his  own  timidity;  for  he  did  not 
yet  know  that  distrust  of  oneself  may  be  a 
sign  of  talent.  He  studied  all  the  figures  that 
he  could  find  in  churches.  None  of  them  real- 
ized his  idea  of  a  queen  and  a  saint ;  none  had 
the  nobility  and  the  chasteness  that  he  sought. 
Time  pressed.  He  ventured  to  sketch  the 
drapery  and  the  hands.  His  ambition  to  pro- 
duce a  work  that  should  establish  his  reputation 


208  MADELEINE: 


as  an  artist  and  merit  the  praise  of  his  cousin, 
rendered  him  exacting  of  himself.  He  was 
not  content  with  the  folds  of  the  drapery.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  the  fabric  lacked  flexibility, 
and  its  outline  wanted  grace.  The  hands  de- 
layed him  for  a  long  time;  but  he  forced  himself 
to  give  them  a  royal  elegance.  When  the  time 
came  to  commence  the  head,  his  hesitancy  was 
redoubled.  But  he  put  himself  resolutely  at 
work,  and  immediately  the  chisel  obeyed  the 
impulse  of  a  mysterious  thought.  The  forehead 
rounded  without  effort.  The  eyes,  modelled  as 
if  by  enchantment,  softly  shaded,  seemed  to 
express  the  ecstacy  of  a  soul  in  prayer.  The 
lips,  slightly  opened,  seemed  to  give  passage  to 
a  balmy  breath.  The  hair  divided  itself  into 
plain  bands,  that  framed  the  gracious  oval  of 
the  face. 

After  a  few  moments  of  mute  contempla- 
tion, Maurice  slowly  re-touched  all  that  seemed 
modelled  with  imperfection.  At  last  he  threw 
aside  his  tools,  and  retreated  a  few  steps  to 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


209 


judge  better  of  his  work.  At  this  instant, 
Madeleine  entered ;  and  seeing  the  figure,  had 
no  trouble  in  recognizing  there  herself.  She 
clapped  her  hands,  and  showed  a  childlike 
joy ;  whilst  Maurice,  confused  and  embarrassed, 
blushed  like  a  young  girl.  In  searching  for  a 
model  to  guide  him,  he  had  found  in  his  heart 
the  image  of  Madeleine;  and  without  wishing 
or  even  thinking  of  it,  he  had  faithfully  repro- 
duced the  features  of  his  cousin.  From  that 
day,  his  serenity  was  more  profoundly  troubled 
than  he  dared  own,  even  to  himself. 

This  figure  of  Saint  Elizabeth  decided  his 
destiny.  Although  apparently  finished,  it  re- 
mained still  in  his  work-room,  because  he  was 
unwilling  to  let  it  go.  From  day  to  day  he 
found  some  pretext  for  retaining  it.  There  was 
always  some  point  that  was  unfinished,  some 
detail  that  needed  yet  his  chisel. 

One  morning,  the  Baronet  presented  himself 
in  person.  He  was  a  young  man  about 
Maurice's  own  age,  but  appearing  some  years 


2 1  o  MA  DELEINE  : 


younger;  tall  and  slender,  fair  and  blue-eyed. 
Entering  coldly,  he  slightly  saluted  Maurice, 
and  walked  directly  to  the  statue  of  Saint 
Elizabeth,  which  he  examined  for  a  time  in 
silence. 

"They  have  not  deceived  me,"  he  said  at 
last,  as  if  speaking  to  himself.  "  It  is  the 
ideal  that  I  have  dreamed.  It  is  the  work 
of  a  great  artist." 

Saying  this,  he  opened  a  little  pocket-book 
and  took  from  it  a  handful  of  bank-notes, 
which  he  laid  carelessly  on  the  table. 

"  No,  Monsieur,"  cried  Maurice.  "  We  will 
keep  to  the  price  that  was  agreed.  Take  back 
your  notes.  Your  generosity  is  entirely  lost; 
for  if  you  wish  to  put  upon  this  figure  the 
price  at  which  I  estimate  it,  your  fortune  is 
not  sufficient  for  the  purchase." 

At  these  words,  Sir  Edward  for  the  first 
time  looked  upon  the  wood-cutter.  Although 
Maurice  was  clad  in  a  workman's  blouse,  his 
white  hands,  the  purity  of  the  lines  of  his 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE.          211 

face,  the  proud  attitude  of  this  young  man 
upon  whose  brow  Labor  had  re-established 
the  impress  of  his  race,  revealed  to  the  Baronet 
that  he  was  no  ordinary  workman.  He  com- 
prehended this  the  more  easily,  since  he  was 
himself  possessed  of  faculties  that  lifted  him 
high  above  the  crowd  of  men  of  wealth.  Con- 
fused and  troubled,  he  did  not  wish  to  retire 
without  asking  pardon  for  his  Britannic  entrance. 
Seating  himself  upon  the  side  of  the  couch 
which  served  both  as  bed  and  divan,  he 
conversed  with  Maurice  with  a  grace  that  is 
indeed  rare  to  the  sons  of  Albion.  He  spoke 
of  Art  with  the  taste  of  a  man  who  appreciated 
and  loved  it.  At  first  reserved  and  silent, 
Maurice  was  won  by  the  exquisite  simplicity 
of  his  language  and  his  manner. 

In  this  little  chamber,  in  the  midst  of  blocks 
of  oak  and  sticks  of  walnut  that  encumbered  the 
floor,  they  conversed  as  if  in  a  drawing-room. 
By  an  involuntary  impulse  of  vanity,  whilst  one 
sought  to  show  that  he  had  not  always  lived  by 


212  MADELEINE: 


the  work  of  his  hands,  and  that  he  was  not  a 
stranger  to  the  elegancies  of  life,  the  other  was 
equally  desirous  of  proving  that  in  spite  of  his 
riches  and  his  rank  he  knew  the  worth  of  labor 
and  intelligence.  In  listening  to  Maurice,  Sir 
Edward  felt  that  he  had  met  one  of  his  peers. 
In  listening  to  Sir  Edward,  Maurice  recognized 
that  poverty  has  not  the  sole  privilege  of  wis- 
dom, but  that  every  condition  of  life,  from  the 
highest  to  the  lowest,  offers  fruitful  instruction 
to  those  who  know  how  to  profit  by  it.  Return- 
ing to  the  figure  of  the  sainted  queen,  the 
Baronet  said  that  his  mother  had  borne  the 
sweet  name  of  Elizabeth  during  her  brief  life. 
Maurice,  in  his  turn,  said  that  his  mother,  who 
also  died  in  her  youth,  was  called  by  the  same 
name.  This  coincidence,  slight  as  it  was,  estab- 
lished between  the  two  young  men  a  bond  of 
sympathy;  and  at  the  end  of  two  hours,  they 
separated  as  friends. 

The  intimacy  did  not  stop  here.     Rich  with- 
out arrogance,  grave  without  stiffness,  expansive 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


213 


and  affectionate,  Sir  Edward  was  one  of  those 
Englishmen  that  one  sometimes  meets  when 
one  is  born  under  a  happy  star.  Of  a  generous 
and  chivalrous  nature,  he  possessed  in  a  high 
degree  the  sentiment  which  conceals  the  advan- 
tages of  birth,  and  which  might  be  called  the 
modesty  of  riches.  Stronger  in  will  than  Mau- 
rice, he  had  crossed  the  stormy  regions  of  youth 
without  leaving  there  his  native  purity.  The 
shipwreck  of  his  illusions  had  not  turned  him 
from  his  way.  In  learning  to  know  men,  he  had 
not  felt  obliged  to  hate  or  to  despise  them. 
With  the  experience  of  a  sage,  he  had  the 
enthusiasm  of  a  poet,  the  candor  and  simplicity 
of  a  child.  He  happily  combined  two  rare  fac- 
ulties which  seem  ordinarily  to  exclude  each 
other :  he  was  as  wise  as  those  who  no  longer 
love,  and  he  loved  like  those  who  are  not  yet 
wise.  He  had  cultivated  his  mind  by  travel 
and  by  study.  Gifted  with  an  instinct  for  the 
beautiful  in  art,  he  honored  talent  and  glorified 
genius.  For  many  years  he  had  passed  his 


214  MADELEINE: 


Winters  in  Paris,  in  the  intimacy  of  artists.  The 
world  attracted  him  but  little ;  and  he  was  more 
frequently  seen  in  studios  than  in  drawing- 
rooms. 

From  this  time  he  visited  Maurice  daily. 
He  would  come  in  the  afternoon,  bringing  some 
excellent  cigars;  and,  seating  himself  upon 
the  side  of  the  bed,  he  would  smoke  while 
watching  Maurice  at  his  task,  occasionally 
giving  the  artist  the  benefit  of  his  opinion 
upon  the  progress  of  his  work.  The  intimacy 
grew,  until  Maurice  insensibly  arrived  at  half- 
confidences.  Although  prudently  silent  upon 
the  excesses  of  his  past  life,  he  spoke  with 
enthusiasm  of  his  sister  and  of  her  devotion. 
Of  a  tender  and  poetic  nature,  Sir  Edward 
did  not  fail  to  be  interested  in  the  description 
of  their  fraternal  existence.  But  although  he 
desired  to  become  acquainted  with  this  young 
sister,  he  had  not  yet  ventured  to  ask  Maurice 
to  present  him;  and  notwithstanding  the  artist's 
sincere  attachment  for  him,  he  made  no  further 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


215 


offering  of  courtesy  than  the    welcome  to   his 
work-room. 

Alas!  No  one  escapes  his  destiny.  One 
day  when  Madeleine  was  in  her  cousin's  work- 
room, the  Baronet  entered.  Maurice  had 
spoken  to  her  more  than  once  of  his  friend; 
and  the  young  girl,  rejoiced  to  see  the  new 
sentiment  growing  in  the  heart  so  long  desolate, 
had  encouraged  the  friendship.  Thus  she 
was  under  no  restraint  in  the  presence  of  the 
Baronet;  and  desiring  to  render  herself  agree- 
able to  her  cousin,  she  was  cordial  and  amiable 
to  his  friend.  Sir  Edward  was  delighted 
with  her,  and  after  she  had  retired  he  said  to 
Maurice : 

"  You  are  right,  Monsieur,  to  speak  with 
pride  of  your  sister.  I  am  only  surprised  that 
you  have  failed  to  describe  her  grace  and 
beauty.  A  purer  soul  I  am  sure  was  never 
reflected  in  a  sweeter  face.  I  can  understand 
now  why  it  will  be  easy  for  you  to  be  a  great 
artist.  The  beauty  of  the  model  assists  the 


216  MADELEINE: 


genius  of  the  master.  Fortune  has  been  kinder 
to  you  than  I  suspected,  since  she  has  left 
you  such  a  treasure." 

The  speaker  ran  no  risk  of  interruption. 
Bent  over  his  table,  Maurice  fashioned  a  piece 
of  wood,  not  appearing  to  hear  what  his  com- 
panion said. 

At  dinner  that  day,  and  in  the  evening,  in 
Madeleine's  room,  the  talk  was  all  of  the 
Baronet.  By  the  elegant  simplicity  of  his 
manner,  the  delicacy  of  his  language,  and  the 
elevation  of  his  ideas,  Sir  Edward  had  gained 
the  sympathies  of  Madeleine,  who  warmly  con- 
gratulated her  cousin  upon  such  an  intimacy. 
Women  who  love  us  have  a  marvellous  instinct 
by  which  they  measure  at  a  glance  the  sincerity 
and  value  of  the  friendships  that  surround 
us.  Ursula,  who  had  met  the  gentleman  in 
the  stairway,  was  not  silent  concerning  his 
good  face,  and  absolutely  refused  to  believe 
that  he  was  an  Englishman.  Pierre  Marceau, 
who  had  known  the  Baronet  a  long  time, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


217 


recounted  some  incidents  of  his  generosity  that 
delighted  Madeleine,  whilst  Ursula  uttered 
cries  of  unbounded  admiration.  In  this  concert 
of  praise,  Maurice  was  not  mute:  though  he 
was  scarcely  able  to  account  to  himself  for 
the  uneasiness  that  he  experienced — like  plants 
which  feel  the  approach  of  a  storm  while  the 
sky  is  yet  clear. 

After  that  day,  the  Baronet  occasionally 
visited  Madeleine  in  her  apartments.  Short 
and  rare  at  first,  these  visits  soon  became 
longer  and  more  frequent.  Sometimes  he 
would  come  in  the  morning,  and  again  in  the 
evening.  Madeleine  always  received  him  with 
frank  cordiality,  not  dissimulating  in  any  way 
her  liking  for  him.  Maurice  observed  her 
with  disquietude.  There  were  hours  when  he 
felt  an  irritation  toward  his  friend  that  he 
could  not  explain.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
his  cousin  was  less  reserved  to  this  stranger 
than  to  him.  He  also  noticed  that  the  Baronet 
no  longer  spoke  of  leaving  Paris.  One  evening 


2i8  MADELEINE: 


when  he  hazarded  a  question  upon  this  point, 
the  Baronet  replied  that  he  was  not  going; 
and  Maurice  believed  that  he  saw  Madeleine 
thank  him  with  a  smile. 

This  disquietude,  this  mysterious  distress, 
assumed  a  more  serious  and  alarming  character. 
Maurice  sought  solitude,  and  seemed  to  have 
lost  his  taste  for  work.  Madeleine,  hitherto 
so  vigilant  and  clear-sighted,  did  not  appear 
to  notice  any  change  in  her  cousin.  One  would 
have  thought  she  had  eyes  only  for  Sir  Edward. 

One  morning  the  Baronet  entered  Maurice's 
room,  more  grave  than  usual.  He  seated 
himself  upon  the  bed,  and,  without  opening 
his  mouth,  commenced  tracing  invisible  circles 
with  the  end  of  his  cane  upon  the  floor. 
He  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  has  something 
important  to  say,  but  who  does  not  know 
where  to  begin.  Maurice  waited  with  anxiety, 
as  if  he  divined  that  the  storm  he  had  feared 
was  about  to  burst  above  his  head. 

"  My   friend,"  said    the    Baronet    at    length, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


219 


with  that  amiable  embarrassment  which  is  so 
becoming  to  riches  when  addressing  poverty, 
"  I  loved  your  sister  before  knowing  her.  You 
taught  me  to  love  her  —  to  associate  her  with 
you  in  the  same  sentiment  of  affection  and 
respect.  After  meeting  her,  the  sentiment  im- 
mediately became  love.  Could  it  be  other- 
wise? I  make  you  the  judge.  If  she  were  not 
your  sister,  could  you  see  her  and  not  adore 
her  ?  I  know  nothing  of  your  family  or  of  your 
history;  but  I  have  seen  your  daily  life,  and 
from  the  manner  in  which  you  have  borne  mis- 
fortune, I  know  you  are  not  unworthy  of  wealth 
and  rank.  I  believe  I  have  shown  you  that  I 
am  not  unworthy  of  poverty.  We  are  already 
friends  :  are  you  willing  that  we  should  become 
brothers  ?  " 

Paler  than  death,  Maurice  spoke  at  length, 
in  a  voice  of  forced  composure. 

"Sir  Edward,"  he  said,  "your  words  honor 
us  all.  Believe  me,  I  am  deeply  touched  —  aa 
I  should  be.  But  Madeleine  ....  my  siste* 


220  MADELEINE: 


.....  doubtless  she  loves  you.  You  have 
her  consent?" 

"No,  my  friend,  I  do  not  know  that  I  am 
loved  by  her.  But  I  believe  firmly  in  the  force 
of  attraction  of  a  pure  love ;  and  I  have  said  to 
myself  that  perhaps  by  a  devotion  and  affection 
without  bounds,  I  may  gain  the  heart  I  have 
chosen." 

"  But,  Sir  Edward,  does  Madeleine  know  that 
you  love  her?"  asked  Maurice. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  to  her  of  my  love," 
replied  the  Baronet.  "  It  was  my  duty  to  come 
first  to  you  and  loyally  ask  your  consent." 

"  It  is  well,"  said  Maurice,  in  his  turn  ex- 
tending his  hand  to  Sir  Edward.  "  You  have 
entirely  gained  my  esteem.  I  will  tell  Made- 
leine what  you  have  said,  and  if  she  consents 
to  your  wish  I  shall  be  content  with  her  happi- 
ness and  yours." 

The  Baronet  withdrew,  his  heart  filled  with 
hope.  If  he  loved  Madeleine — if  he  had  not 
failed  to  be  captivated  by  so  much  of  candor, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


221 


reason,  grace,  and  beauty  —  he  also  loved  Mau- 
rice ;  and  it  was  a  lively  pleasure  to  this  poetic 
spirit,  this  generous  and  tender  soul,  to  think 
that  he  might  now  avenge  these  young  people 
upon  fortune,  and  restore  them  before  the  world 
to  the  position  they  had  lost. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

E,FT  alone,  Maurice  was  lost  in  a  chaos  of 
confused  thoughts,  of  sentiments  so  op- 
posed and  contradictory  that  the  most  subtle 
analyst,  the  most  consummate  psychologist, 
would  have  been  baffled  by  them.  After  con- 
ducting Sir  Edward  to  the  door,  Maurice  threw 
himself  upon  his  bed,  prostrated  by  his  emo- 
tions. He  felt  a  sense  of  suffering  that  he 
could  neither  define  nor  name.  Little  by  little 
the  tumult  of  his  feelings  quieted,  and  his  per- 
ceptions became  clearer.  His  face  was  illumim 
ated  by  a  soft  and  gentle  glow,  like  the  first 
rays  of  the  dawn.  In  truth,  it  was  the  dawn  — 
dawn  of  a  newer  life.  He  remained  a  long  time 
silent;  upon  his  lips,  yet  pale  and  trembling, 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


223 


was  the  smile  of  a  child  but  just  awakened ;  his 
bosom  heaved ;  tears  filled  his  eyes ;  and,  like 
the  resurrected  Lazarus,  he  lifted  his  hands  to 
Heaven. 

Looking  into  the  depths  of  his  own  heart, 
Maurice  had  seen  a  newly-opened  flower.  He 
had  breathed  its  perfume.  This  flower  was 
Love.  He  loved.  .  .  .  Ah,  to  understand  that 
rapture,  one  must  himself  have  known  it;  at 
the  close  of  a  too -early  Autumn,  have  felt 
awaken  in  his  soul  a  second  Spring-time,  in 
which  blooms  this  divine  flower  of  Love,  that 
he  has  believed  forever  faded.  .  .  .  Maurice's 
rapture  was  brief.  It  ended  in  an  emotion  of 
anger  and  despair.  Like  a  bird  mortally 
stricken  in  the  empyrean,  he  fell  heavily  upon 
the  ground  of  reality.  He  loved — when  the  hour 
of  love  had  passed.  He  arrived  too  late  at  the 
gate  of  Eden,  through  whose  bars  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  happiness,  only  to  bid  it  an  eternal 
farewell.  The  violence  of  his  nature  again 
asserted  itself;  and  he  exhausted  his  strength 


224 


MADELEINE  : 


in  jealous  imprecations  upon  Sir  Edward,  who 
had  closed  against  him  the  door  of  happiness. 
In  his  frenzy,  he  did  not  spare  even  Madeleine. 
He  recalled  her  every  look  and  attitude  in  these 
last  days.  He  saw  her  smiling  at  the  Baronet 
— and  he  felt  his  bosom  stung  by  the  serpents 
of  Hell.  He  had  not  even  the  consolation  of 
thinking  that  he  might  possibly  deceive  himself. 
Even  if  he  had  not  observed  these  lovers,  if  he 
had  not  followed  with  an  unquiet  eye  the 
progress  of  their  mutual  affection,  the  vague 
uneasiness  that  he  had  felt  would  have  sufficed ; 
the  martyrdom  which  he  endured  at  this  hour 
would  have  revealed  to  him  that  Madeleine 
loved  Sir  Edward.  He  paced  his  chamber  for 
some  time  in  silence ;  then,  suddenly  arresting 
his  steps,  ashamed  of  his  violence,  he  said  to 
himself:  "Of  what,  miserable  wretch,  dost  thou 
complain  ?  Barely  escaped  from  the  mire  where 
thou  hast  dragged  thy  youth,  thou  pitiest  thy- 
self because  thou  art  not  loved  ?  Thou  art 
indignant  at  seeing  preferred  to  thee  a  noble 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE 


225 


heart,  a  virtue  without  stain,  a  conscience  that 
has  never  failed?  What  hast  thou  done  to 
merit  this  affection  which  to-day  seems  to  thee 
the  supreme  good?  In  the  years  when  this 
treasure  was  within  thy  reach,  what  effort  hast 
thou  made  to  prove  thyself  worthy  of  it  ?  Thou 
hast  misunderstood  it,  disdained  it,  trampled  it 
under  thy  feet ;  and  now  thou  art  in  revolt 
because  one  more  worthy  takes  it  from  thee! 
Rest  in  the  shadow  of  thy  grief,  and  thank 
Heaven  for  having  given  thee  the  grace  of 
knowing  how  to  love." 

Never  before  had  Maurice  so  bitterly  la- 
mented the  faults  of  his  past;  never  had 
remorse  for  his  ill-spent  days  so  weighed  upon 
him.  For  the  first  time,  he  saw  his  ruin  in 
all  of  its  extent.  At  the  moment  when  his 
soul  opened  to  the  sentiment  of  love,  to  the 
hope  of  happiness,  they  had  escaped  his  grasp. 
He  said  to  himself:  "If  I  had  always  followed, 
like  Sir  Edward,  the  inflexible  line  of  duty, 
I  would  now  be  under  the  roof  of  my  father, 

15 


226  MADELEINE: 


beside  Madeleine,  who  perhaps  would  have 
loved  me  —  for  I  would  then  have  been  worthy 
of  her  love." 

True  love  is  humble,  resigned,  and  ready 
for  sacrifice.  What,  Maurice  asked  himself, 
could  he  offer  his  cousin?  In  spite  of  his 
courage  and  his  perseverance,  in  spite  of  the 
favor  that  his  work  had  won — supposing  even 
this  favor  durable  —  he  would  never  be  able 
to  secure  to  her  anything  more  than  a  wretched 
and  stinted  existence;  whilst  in  marrying  Sir 
Edward  she  would  take  again  the  rank  in 
society  that  belonged  to  her.  If  she  felt 
herself  drawn  toward  the  Baronet  by  even  a 
feeble  sentiment  of  affection,  should  Maurice 
discourage  it?  Was  it  not  rather  his  duty  to 
encourage  her,  and  to  sacrifice  all  for  her 
happiness  ?  He  did  not  hesitate.  He  decided 
upon  the  instant. 

He  passed  the  evening,  as  was  his  wont, 
with  his  cousin.  He  was  sad  and  silent; 
whilst  she,  by  one  of  those  contrasts  that  so 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


227 


often  occur  in  life,  was  unusually  gay.  Maurice 
did  not  invite  a  word  or  a  look  that  could 
shake  his  resolution.  Only,  when  about  to 
retire,  he  begged  her  to  sing  the  "  Adieu  "  of 
Schubert,  which  had  one  night  affected  him  so 
profoundly.  Never  had  she  sang  so  touchingly. 
When  she  had  finished,  Maurice  took  her  hands 
in  his  and  pressed  them  to  his  lips. 

In  the  ante-chamber  he  met  Ursula. 

"  You  are  sad,  Monsieur  Maurice,"  said  she. 
"  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  my  good  Ursula,"  he  replied. 
"Thou  knowest  that  my  sadnesses  are  not 
serious.  But  embrace  me;  I  am  sure  that  will 
do  me  good." 

Ursula  sprang  to  her  foster-brother,  who 
pressed  her  to  his  heart. 

The  following  morning,  rising  at  daylight, 
Maurice  went  to  his  table,  and,  to  make  com- 
plete this  immolation  of  his  hopes,  stifling  the 
cry  of  his  soul,  he  wrote  with  a  firm  hand 
this  letter : 


228  MADELEINE; 


"MADELEINE: — I  have  kept  my  promise. 
You  asked  of  me  two  years  of  abnegation  and 
devotion.  They  have  long  since  expired.  In 
them,  you  have  assumed  my  rdle.  You  have 
been  to  me  more  than  I  was  to  you.  In  leading 
me  to  understand  the  value  of  labor,  the  gran- 
deur and  holiness  of  duty,  you  have  almost 
effaced  in  me  the  traces  of  my  wanderings. 
Whatever  may  be  the  future  that  God  has 
reserved  for  me,  I  shall  never  have  for  you  any 
sentiment  but  gratitude,  any  words  but  those 
of  benediction.  But  I  do  not  wish,  I  cannot 
accept  longer,  the  sacrifice  to  which  you  have 
resigned  yourself  with  so  much  courage.  That 
would  be  in  me  a  gross  selfishness  for  which 
I  could  never  pardon  myself.  It  is  no  longer 
a  question  of  me,  but  of  you  and  your  happiness. 
Sir  Edward  loves  you.  He  is  worthy  of  your 
love.  He  can  secure  to  you  the  rank  that  you 
merit.  He  has  for  me  a  sincere  affection,  and 
will  charge  himself  to  acquit  my  debt  to  you. 
Adieu  then.  Be  not  disquieted  for  my  destiny. 
In  whatever  place  I  find  myself,  my  labor  will 
suffice  for  all  my  needs.  Do  not  fear  that  I  will 
again  fall  into  the  profound  night  from  which 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


229 


you  have  rescued  me.  A  mysterious  star  will 
guide  me  in  the  path  that  you  have  opened.  If 
discouragements  arise,  if  my  strength  fails,  I 
have  only  to  look  into  my  heart,  and  I  shall  find 
there  your  image.  I  am  going  to  see  again  the 
home  of  my  father.  It  is  a  reparation  that  I 
owe  his  memory.  I  wish  to  present  myself, 
pure  and  regenerated,  in  the  place  that  beheld 
me  debased  and  dishonored.  I  trust  this 
pilgrimage  will  appease  the  trouble  of  my  con- 
science. Then  I  will  go  with  a  firm  step 
wherever  God  may  lead  me.  Adieu,  Madeleine. 
Be  happy ;  and  then  I  shall  bless  the  memory 
of  the  days  we  have  passed  together,  since  the 
memory  will  not  then  be  bitter  to  you. 

Your  Brother, 

MAURICE." 

He  folded  the  letter,  and  traced  upon  the 
envelope  the  sweet  name  which  should  hence- 
forth fill  his  life.  Putting  the  letter  where  it 
would  be  found,  upon  the  chimney-piece,  he 
saw,  at  this  instant,  Marceau  and  his  wife, 
already  at  work,  near  the  cradle  of  their  chil- 


230 


MADELEINE  : 


dren.  He  saluted  them  affectionately ;  and 
after  contemplating  fondly  for  several  minutes 
the  peace  and  happiness  of  this  little  household, 
he  prepared  for  his  departure.  When  all  was 
ready,  he  clasped  his  leathern  belt  around  his 
blouse,  put  upon  his  back  the  knapsack  which 
contained  all  his  fortune,  and  took  in  his  hand 
a  workman's  travelling  staff.  Then,  surveying 
tenderly  the  little  chamber,  which  he  had 
entered  hardened  by  selfishness,  withered  by 
idleness,  aged  by  debauch,  he  left  it,  regener- 
ated by  labor,  rejuvenated  by  love,  and  sancti- 
fied by  sacrifice. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

TT  7HILE  still  in  Paris,  Maurice's  sadness 
*  *  was  mixed  with  a  secret  irritation.  He 
even  felt  misgivings  for  the  generous  resignation 
that  had  led  him  to  leave  Madeleine.  It  seemed 
as  if  there  was  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  great 
city  a  remnant  of  the  unhappy  influences  of  his 
past.  But  outside  of  Paris,  where  his  breast 
swelled  with  the  country  air  and  he  was  face-to- 
face  with  Nature,  his  heart  was  softened,  and 
he  was  dominated  by  but  one  sentiment  —  his 
love  for  Madeleine.  He  had  now  a  clear 
glimpse  of  the  greatness  and  the  holiness  of  a 
passion  of  which  before  he  had  known  only  the 
gross  image.  The  farther  he  found  himself 
from  Madeleine,  the  more  his  heart  bled  at  the 

931 


232 


MADELEINE  : 


separation.  But  there  was  still  some  sweetness 
in  his  grief.  In  the  exile  to  which  he  resigned 
himself,  he  felt  a  joy  keener  and  more  profound 
than  in  the  intoxication  of  passion.  He  was 
not  loved;  but  he  felt  himself  worthy  of  love, 
and  the  consciousness  of  moral  value  inspired 
a  legitimate  pride.  He  was  not  loved ;  but  he 
applauded  himself  for  the  sacrifices  he  had 
made  for  the  happiness  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
and  he  found  in  this  sacrifice  a  joy  that  nothing 
could  take  away.  His  pilgrimage  to  Valtravers 
was  not  only  a  mark  of  respect  for  his  father's 
memory ;  he  wished  also  to  see  again  those 
places  where  he  had  known  Madeleine  for  the 
first  time ;  to  breathe  the  air  that  had  been 
embalmed  by  her  presence ;  to  walk  the  paths 
where  he  had  heard  her  voice. 

The  sentiment  of  the  beautiful  in  Nature,  so 
long  dead  in  his  heart,  all  the  undulations  of 
the  country,  the  caprices  of  the  sky,  the  tones 
of  the  landscape,  were  to  Maurice  a  source  of 
unexpected  joy.  His  simple  delight  would  have 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


233 


made  one  believe  that  he  saw  for  the  first  time 
the  marvels  of  creation.  The  fatigues  of  this 
journey  on  foot  were  sweeter  to  him  than  those 
excursions  which  he  had  so  often  made  in  car- 
riages or  in  the  saddle.  The  halts  at  evening 
in  country  inns ;  the  departure  at  dawn ;  the 
meetings  at  the  common  table ;  the  chats  with 
the  little  children  before  the  door,  all  were  to 
him  poetic  episodes,  renewing  and  varying  the 
interest  of  his  pilgrimage,  while  perfecting  him 
in  the  practice  of  equality. 

A  last  moral  revolution  crowned  all  the 
others  in  the  soul  of  Maurice.  Madeleine  had 
succeeded  in  awakening  a  religious  sentiment  in 
his  heart,  and  had  often  besought  him  to  have 
recourse  to  prayer.  But  he  had  never  consented 
to  enter  a  church  for  worship.  It  was  reserved 
for  the  influence  of  grief  to  bring  him,  by  an 
insensible  but  sure  ascent,  to  the  beliefs  and 
practices  that  he  had  ridiculed.  He  found  the 
truth  that  all  sincere  griefs  lift  us  to  God.  In 
passing  through  a  village,  he  found  himself  one 


234 


MADELEINE  : 


day  before  a  little  church.  Moved  by  an  irre- 
sistible impulse,  he  entered.  It  was  one  of 
those  plain  and  humble  churches  which  God 
prefers  to  a  sumptuous  and  gilded  temple.  The 
sun  shone  softly  in  through  a  window.  Field- 
flowers  adorned  the  altar,  upon  whose  steps 
some  aged  men  and  women  kneeled  in  prayer. 
Maurice  too  sank  upon  his  knees  and  prayed. 
He  prayed  to  obtain  pardon  from  his  father  for 
his  wanderings,  and  from  Heaven  the  happiness 
of  Madeleine. 

After  a  solitary  walk  of  fifteen  days,  he 
passed  unrecognized  through  the  little  village 
of  Neuvy-les-Bois.  His  costume  served  as  a 
disguise.  Besides,  in  this  assured  step,  in  this 
proud  and  serene  look,  in  the  calmness  and 
dignity  of  this  noble  and  manly  face,  how 
should  anyone  detect  a  likeness  to  the  young 
man  who  had  departed  like  an  outlaw  three 
years  before? 

Who  can  tell  the  emotions  of  his  heart, 
when  an  hour  later,  he  saw  at  the  horizon's 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


235 


edge  the  forests  that  had  sheltered  his  child- 
hood, in  whose  mysterious  depths  he  had  so 
often  walked  between  his  father  and  the 
Marquise,  and  where  Madeleine  had  first 
appeared  to  him?  In  finding  himself,  full  of 
life  and  love,  once  more  in  these  beautiful 
places  where  three  years  before  he  had  brought 
only  the  consciousness  of  his  fall,  his  first 
impulse  was  to  cry  aloud  to  Nature  that  he 
was  young,  that  he  could  love,  that  he  loved. 
His  regenerated  soul  was  exalted  in  an  ecstacy 
of  holy  delight.  "  Nature,  rejoice  thou ! "  he 
cried.  "  It  is  yet  thy  child.  Light  breezes ! 
caress,  as  in  the  old  time,  my  forehead.  Mosses 
of  the  woods,  grasses  of  the  clearing,  recognize 
my  step !  Tremble  and  bend  lovingly  above 
my  head,  ye  trees  that  my  father  planted." 

He  walked  slowly.  Recollections  rose  before 
him,  like  skylarks  in  a  field.  In  the  shade  of 
this  oak  he  had  rested,  with  his  father.  Under 
the  silvery  leaves  of  this  sensitive  tree  he 
had  forgotten  himself  for  a  day,  listening  to 


2  3  6  MA  DELEINE  : 


the  first  passionate  murmurs  of  the  youth 
awakening  within  him.  At  the  turn  of  an 
avenue,  he  recognized  the  place  where  that 
Autumn  evening  he  had  found  his  cousin. 
He  recalled  all  the  details  of  their  meeting. 
He  also  remembered  that  one  year  later  — 
the  day  of  his  first  departure  —  he  had  again 
found  Madeleine  at  this  place. 

"  Ah,  poor  wretch !  "  he  cried  sadly.  "  What 
demon  possessed  thee?  She  was  here,  a 
celestial  warning,  the  image  of  the  happiness 
thou  wert  leaving  behind  thee.  Why  hast 
thou  not  taken  her  by  the  hand  and  returned 
upon  thy  steps?" 

The  day  faded.  Overcome  by  his  emotions, 
Maurice  had  fallen  upon  the  grass.  He  arose 
and  proceeded  toward  the  chateau.  He  did 
not  even  know  who  inhabited  it;  but  he  was 
not  curious  to  see  or  know  the  owner.  He 
only  wished  to  say  a  last  adieu,  and  depart 
from  the  Eden  from  which  he  was  forever 
exiled.  At  the  gate  of  the  park,  he  remained 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


237 


a  long  time  leaning  against  the  bars ;  then  he 
mechanically  opened  the  gate  and  entered. 
The  park  was  deserted.  The  shadows  of 
evening  were  beginning  to  fall  about  him. 
Maurice  heard  only  the  murmurs  of  the  wind 
in  the  leaves,  the  calls  of  birds  in  their 
nests,  the  crushing  of  the  sand  under  his 
feet. 

At  the  end  of  the  avenue,  which  brought 
the  chateau  into  view,  he  stopped,  held  his 
breath,  and  pressed  his  hand  against  his  heart. 
.  .  .  Could  he  believe  his  eyes?  Was  it  not 
a  dream  —  a  mirage  —  an  hallucination  of  his 
excited  brain?  The  staff  escaped  from  his 
hands.  His  knees  bent  under  him,  and  he 
was  obliged  to  lean  against  a  tree. 

Twenty  steps  before  him,  seated  upon  the 
door-step  of  the  chateau,  lit  as  of  old  by  the 
fires  of  the  setting  sun,  whilst  two  children, 
whom  Maurice  knew,  rolled  upon  the  sward, 
were  Madeleine,  Sir  Edward,  and  Pierre  Mar- 
ceau  and  his  wife. 


238 


MADELEINE  : 


Madeleine  arose  and  advanced  smilingly  to 
Maurice,  as  serene  and  calm  as  if  his  presence 
were  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world. 

"  My  friend,"  she  said,  "  we  have  waited  for 
you." 

Taking  his  arm,  the  young  girl  drew  him 
softly  toward  the  Baronet,  The"rese,  and  Mar- 
ceau,  who  came  to  meet  him.  They  shook 
hands;  but  all  hearts  were  affected  to  silence. 

"Oh,  my  friends,"  at  length  said  Maurice,  in 
a  trembling  voice,  "what  is  it  that  is  passing?  — 
what  has  passed  ?  Have  I  dreamed  of  grief  and 
of  despair,  or  do  I  now  dream  of  happiness  ?  " 

The  faces  of  those  about  him  answered  only 
by  an  affectionate  smile. 

Led  by  Madeleine,  Maurice  ascended  the 
steps.  All  the  old  servants  were  waiting  in 
the  hall. 

"  My  children,"  said  Madeleine,  "  see  your 
young  master,  who  has  returned  again  to 
us." 

They   surrounded   him  with   expressions   of 


A    STOXY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


239 


respect  and  love,  whilst  Ursula  unfastened  with 
delight  the  buckles  of  his  knapsack.  At  this 
moment  a  servant  announced  in  a  high  voice 
that  Monsieur  the  Chevalier  was  served.  Fol- 
lowed by  Sir  Edward  and  the  Marceaus,  Made- 
leine conducted  him  to  the  dining-room,  and 
seated  him,  in  his  workman's  blouse,  in  the 
chair  of  his  father.  The  repast  was  brief  and 
silent.  Maurice  had  the  air  of  a  man  who  is 
uncertain  whether  he  wakes  or  sleeps,  and  who 
fears  to  break,  by  an  abrupt  motion  or  an 
imprudent  word,  the  enchantment  that  holds 
him. 

At  the  end  of  the  meal,  Madeleine  arose, 
and  quitting  the  group,  went  toward  the  forest 
with  her  cousin,  who  permitted  her  to  lead  him 
like  a  child.  They  reached  a  green  mound, 
where  the  young  girl  seated  herself,  and  made 
Maurice  sit  beside  her. 

It  was  one  of  those  evenings  that  seem  to 
double  the  value  of  happiness.  Whilst  one 
part  of  the  sky  was  empurpled  with  the  dying 


240 


MADELEINE  : 


fires  left  by  the  descending  sun,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  horizon  the  moon  was  rising  in  a 
lake  of  azure,  and  mounting  slowly  to  the 
summits  of  the  trees  that  she  silvered  with 
her  pale  rays.  The  nightingale  sang  with  full 
throat  in  the  thick  foliage.  The  breezes  of  the 
night  awakened  and  sounded  in  the  depths  of 
the  forest  like  the  distant  murmurs  of  a 
cascade. 

"  Oh,  my  friend,"  said  Madeleine,  in  a  voice 
sweeter  than  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  fresher 
than  the  breezes  of  the  night,  "  I  have  loved 
you  from  the  day  when  I  saw  you  here  for  the 
first  time.  You  had  need  to  pass,  by  the  way 
of  poverty,  of  labor,  and  of  abnegation,  to 
regeneration.  I  comprehended  this,  and  I  de- 
termined to  share  the  trials  that  I  imposed  upon 
you.  These  trials  are  ended.  Maurice,  will  you 
pardon  me?" 

Maurice  was  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the 
mound  where  his  cousin  was  seated.  The  fair 
girl  bent  toward  him  her  sweet  face,  and  under 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


241 


the  light  of  the  starry  heavens,  their  lips  met  in 
a  chaste  kiss. 

Madeleine  had  not  lost  her  lawsuit.  The 
chateau  was  yet  hers.  She  had  deceived  Mau- 
rice that  she  might  save  him.  .  .  .  I  do  not 
wish  to  recount  here  what  had  passed  day  by 
day  in  the  heart  of  the  young  girl  whilst  Mau- 
rice pursued  the  work  of  his  rehabilitation.  It 
is  a  recital  which  delicate  souls  can  make  for 
themselves ;  whilst  vulgar  souls  would  not  com- 
prehend it. 

As  soon  as  they  had  learned  of  Maurice's 
departure  from  Paris,  they  all  followed  by 
diligence;  and  thus  the  young  Chevalier  found 
the  friends  of  his  last  days  in  Paris,  under  the 
roof  of  his  fathers. 

"They  were  the  witnesses  of  our  struggles 
and  our  efforts,"  said  Madeleine.  "It  is  just 
that  they  should  be  present  when  you  receive 
the  recompense  that  you  have  merited.  That 
which  Sir  Edward  loved  most  in  me  was 

16 


242 


MADELEINE  : 


our  poverty.  Our  happiness  will  console 
him." 

A  month  later,  Maurice  and  Madeleine 
were  married,  without  ostentation,  at  Neuvy- 
les-Bois.  The  next  day,  Pierre  Marceau,  with 
his  wife  and  children,  left  for  Paris.  It  was 
in  vain  that  Madeleine  and  Maurice  begged 
them  to  remain  at  the  chateau,  where  they 
would  find  abundant  employment  for  their 
activity  and  intelligence. 

"You  have  re-found  your  place,"  replied 
Marceau.  "Let  me  keep  mine.  I  would  only 
weary  your  felicity.  I  fear  nothing  from  your 
pride.  Labor  has  established  between  us  an 
equality  which  nothing  can  disturb.  But  the 
world  in  which  you  live  would  refuse  to  com- 
prehend it ;  and  its  astonishment  would  be  to 
me  a  reproach  which  I  wish  to  spare  us  both." 

And  so  the  little  family  left  them,  loaded 
with  tokens  of  affection. 

At  the  end  of  a  month,  Sir  Edward  also 
took  his  leave. 


A    STORY  OF  FRENCH  LOVE. 


243 


"  Watch  over  your  happiness,"  said  he  to 
Maurice,  at  the  moment  of  his  departure.  "  It 
is  a  delicate  plant,  which  needs  tender  and 
vigilant  care." 


My  task  is  terminated.  Happy  lives  have 
no  history.  Maurice  was  henceforth  beyond 
danger.  Work  was  no  longer  a  necessity;  but 
he  was  not  inactive.  He  occupied  himself  in 
doing  good,  and  sowed  his  riches  about  him 
with  an  open  hand.  Madeleine  is  paid  with 
usury  for  her  devotion ;  and  no  cloud  troubles 
the  serenity  of  their  mutual  tenderness. 

No  matter  what  Madeleine  may  say,  Ursula 
persists  in  believing  that  her  young  mistress 
really  lost  her  lawsuit,  and  that  Maurice  found 
in  wood-carving  the  means  to  buy  again  the 
home  of  his  ancestors. 

Maurice  has  ever  for  his  young  wife  a 
steadfast  and  exalted  gratitude.  When  he  is 


244 


MADELEINE  : 


impelled  to  bless  her  for  their  happiness,  she 
will  reply : 

"  My  friend,  it  is  not  I  that  you  should 
thank.  I  have  only  pointed  the  way  in  which 
you  should  walk.  It  is  Labor  that  you  should 
bless,  for  it  is  through  Labor  that  you  have 
found  again  youth,  love,  and  happiness." 

THE   END. 


A     000  129  228 


